1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
|
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Charm of Gardens, by Dion Clayton Calthrop</title>
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
<style type="text/css">
body { margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 10%; }
h1 { text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-size: 1.4em; }
h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-size: 1.2em; }
h3 { text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-size: 1.2em; }
.pageno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver;
text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute;
border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal;
font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; }
p { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; text-align: justify; }
.fss { font-size: 75%; }
.sc { font-variant: small-caps; }
.xlarge { font-size: x-large; }
.xxlarge { font-size: xx-large; }
.small { font-size: small; }
.lg-container-b { text-align: center; }
@media handheld { .lg-container-b { clear: both; } }
.lg-container-l { text-align: left; }
@media handheld { .lg-container-l { clear: both; } }
.linegroup { display: inline-block; text-align: left; }
@media handheld { .linegroup { display: block; margin-left: 1.5em; } }
.linegroup .group { margin: 1em auto; }
.linegroup .line { text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em; }
div.linegroup > :first-child { margin-top: 0; }
.linegroup .in1 { padding-left: 3.5em; }
.linegroup .in2 { padding-left: 4.0em; }
.linegroup .in3 { padding-left: 4.5em; }
div.pbb { page-break-before: always; }
hr.pb { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-bottom: 1em; }
@media handheld { hr.pb { display: none; } }
.chapter { clear: both; page-break-before: always; }
.figcenter { clear: both; max-width: 100%; margin: 2em auto; text-align: center; }
div.figcenter p { text-align: center; text-indent: 0; }
.figcenter img { max-width: 100%; height: auto; }
.id001 { width:600px; }
.id002 { width:100px; }
.id003 { width:895px; }
.id004 { width:864px; }
.id005 { width:854px; }
.id006 { width:905px; }
.id007 { width:842px; }
.id008 { width:969px; }
.id009 { width:855px; }
.id010 { width:817px; }
.id011 { width:1014px; }
.id012 { width:1017px; }
.id013 { width:876px; }
.id014 { width:841px; }
.id015 { width:50px; }
@media handheld { .id001 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id002 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id003 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id004 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id005 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id006 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id007 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id008 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id009 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id010 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id011 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id012 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id013 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id014 { margin-left:0%; width:100%; } }
@media handheld { .id015 { margin-left:47%; width:6%; } }
.ic001 { width:100%; }
.ig001 { width:100%; }
.table0 { margin: auto; margin-left: 24%; margin-right: 25%; width: 51%; }
.table1 { margin: auto; margin-left: 37%; margin-right: 37%; width: 26%; }
.table2 { margin: auto; margin-top: 2em; margin-left: 31%; margin-right: 31%;
width: 38%; }
.table3 { margin: auto; margin-top: 2em; margin-left: 27%; margin-right: 27%;
width: 46%; }
.table4 { margin: auto; margin-left: 39%; margin-right: 40%; width: 21%; }
.table5 { margin: auto; margin-left: 40%; margin-right: 40%; width: 20%; }
.nf-center { text-align: center; }
.nf-center-c1 { text-align: left; margin: 1em 0; }
.c000 { margin-top: 1em; }
.c001 { margin-top: 4em; }
.c002 { page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em; }
.c003 { vertical-align: top; text-align: left; padding-right: 1em; }
.c004 { vertical-align: top; text-align: left; }
.c005 { vertical-align: top; text-align: left; text-indent: 2.8em; }
.c006 { page-break-before:auto; margin-top: 4em; }
.c007 { text-align: center; }
.c008 { vertical-align: top; text-align: right; padding-right: 1em; }
.c009 { vertical-align: top; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em;
padding-left: 1em; padding-right: 1em; }
.c010 { vertical-align: bottom; text-align: right; }
.c011 { margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
.c012 { margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
.c013 { margin-left: 5.56%; margin-right: 5.56%; margin-top: 0.5em;
margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
.c014 { margin-top: 2em; }
.c015 { vertical-align: top; text-align: center; padding-right: 1em; }
.c016 { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-top: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.8em; margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 35%; width: 30%; }
.c017 { page-break-before: always; margin-top: 2em; }
.c018 { margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
.c019 { margin-left: 1.39%; margin-top: 2em; }
.c020 { margin-left: 5.56%; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
</style>
</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54641 ***</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
<div><i>OTHER BEAUTIFUL BOOKS</i></div>
<div><i>ON FLOWERS AND GARDENS</i></div>
<div class='c000'>Each containing full-page illustrations in</div>
<div>colour similar to those in this volume</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Flowers and Gardens of Japan</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Alpine Flowers and Gardens</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>British Floral Decoration</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Dutch Bulbs and Gardens</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Flowers and Gardens of Madeira</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>The Garden that I Love</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Gardens of England</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Kew Gardens</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div>
<h1 class='c002'>THE CHARM OF GARDENS</h1>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
<div>AGENTS</div>
</div>
</div>
<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='16%' />
<col width='83%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>AMERICA</td>
<td class='c004'>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'> </td>
<td class='c005'>64 & 66 <span class='sc'>Fifth Avenue</span>, NEW YORK</td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>AUSTRALASIA</td>
<td class='c004'>THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'> </td>
<td class='c005'>205 <span class='sc'>Flinders Lane</span>, MELBOURNE</td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>CANADA</td>
<td class='c004'>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LTD.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'> </td>
<td class='c005'><span class='sc'>St. Martin’s House, 70 Bond Street</span>, TORONTO</td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>INDIA</td>
<td class='c004'>MACMILLAN & COMPANY LTD.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'> </td>
<td class='c005'><span class='sc'>Macmillan Building</span>, BOMBAY</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'> </td>
<td class='c005'>309 <span class='sc'>Bow Bazaar Street</span>, CALCUTTA</td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div id='frontis' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/frontis.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>THE LAKE GARDEN AYSCOUGH FEE HALL, SPALDING.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
<div>THE</div>
<div class='c000'><span class='xxlarge'>CHARM OF GARDENS</span></div>
<div class='c000'>BY</div>
<div class='c000'>DION CLAYTON CALTHROP</div>
<div class='c000'>WITH THIRTY-TWO FULL-PAGE</div>
<div>ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='figcenter id002'>
<img src='images/title.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>
<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='56%' />
<col width='43%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>PUBLISHED BY .</td>
<td class='c004'>4 SOHO SQUARE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>ADAM & CHARLES</td>
<td class='c004'>LONDON . . W.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>BLACK . . . .</td>
<td class='c004'>MCMXI . . . .</td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b c001'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><i>The illustrations in this volume have been selected</i></div>
<div class='line'><i>from volumes in Black’s Series of Beautiful Books</i></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
<div>TO</div>
<div class='c000'>F. M. MARSDEN</div>
<div class='c000'>WITHOUT WHOSE HELP THIS BOOK COULD</div>
<div>NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN</div>
<div>FROM</div>
<div>HER AFFECTIONATE</div>
<div>SON-IN-LAW</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_ix'>ix</span>
<h2 class='c006'>CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<table class='table2' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='13%' />
<col width='73%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='c007' colspan='3'>PART I</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c007' colspan='3'>A VIEW OF ENGLAND</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'> </td>
<td class='c010'>PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>I.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Spirit of Gardens</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_3'>3</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>II.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Garden of England: The Patchwork Quilt</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_10'>10</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>III.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Country Lane: A Memory from Abroad</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_18'>18</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>IV.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Fields</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_23'>23</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>V.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Episode of the Contented Tailor</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_27'>27</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>VI.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Bluebell Wood and the Calm Stone Dog</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_35'>35</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>VII.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Tailor’s Sister’s Tombstone</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_42'>42</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>VIII.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Cottage Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_54'>54</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>IX.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Feast of Wild Strawberries</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_64'>64</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>X.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Praises of a Country Life</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_71'>71</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c007' colspan='3'>PART II</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c007' colspan='3'>GARDENS AND HISTORY</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>I.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Roman Garden in England</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_75'>75</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>II.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>St. Fiacre, Patron Saint of Gardeners and Cab-Drivers</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_88'>88</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>III.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Evelyn’s “Sylva”</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_96'>96</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c007' colspan='3'><span class='pageno' id='Page_x'>x</span>PART III</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'>KALENDARIUM HORTENSE</td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_108'>108</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c007' colspan='3'>PART IV</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c007' colspan='3'>GARDEN MOODS</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>I.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Town Gardens</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_151'>151</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>II.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Effect of Trees</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_163'>163</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>III.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Lover of Gardens</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_182'>182</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>IV.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Of the Crown of Thorns</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_185'>185</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>V.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Of Apples</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_187'>187</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>VI.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Of the First Gardener</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_189'>189</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>VII.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Of the First Roses</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_191'>191</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>VIII.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Of the Abbey Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_193'>193</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>IX.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Olympian Aspect</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_195'>195</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>X.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Evening Red and Morning Grey</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_204'>204</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>XI.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Garden Promises</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_213'>213</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>XII.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Garden Paths</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_220'>220</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>XIII.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Gardens of the Dead</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#Page_233'>233</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xi'>xi</span>
<h2 class='c006'>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
</div>
<table class='table3' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='7%' />
<col width='71%' />
<col width='21%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>1.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Lake Garden, Ayscough Fee Hall, Spalding</span></td>
<td class='c010'><i><a href='#frontis'>Frontispiece</a></i></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'> </td>
<td class='c009'> </td>
<td class='c010'><i>Facing page</i></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>2.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Primrose Bank near Dorking</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o006'>vi</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>3.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Sir Walter’s Sundial, Abbotsford</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o009'>9</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>4.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Weald of Kent, showing the Country like a Patchwork Quilt</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o016'>16</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>5.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Poppies in Surrey</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o025'>25</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>6.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Porches grown over with Honeysuckle and Roses at Broadway in the Cotswolds</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o032'>32</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>7.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Bluebells in Surrey</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o041'>41</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>8.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Cottage Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o048'>48</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>9.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Surrey Cottage</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o057'>57</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>10.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Patches of Heather</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o064'>64</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>11.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Pergola in an English Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o073'>73</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>12.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Entrance to the Gardens, Ayscough Fee Hall, Spalding</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o080'>80</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>13.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Cab-Driver in Piccadilly</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o089'>89</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>14.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Wood at Wotton, the Home of John Evelyn</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o096'>96</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>15.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Tulips in the “Garden of Peace”</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o105'>105</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>16.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Apple Trees</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o112'>112</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xii'>xii</span>17.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Daffodils in a Middlesex Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o121'>121</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>18.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Poet’s Orchard in Kent</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o128'>128</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>19.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Kentish Garden in Autumn</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o137'>137</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>20.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Hampstead Garden in Winter</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o144'>144</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>21.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Azaleas in Bloom, Rotten Row</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o153'>153</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>22.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>In Hyde Park</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o160'>160</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>23.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Seat beneath the Oak in the Poet Laureate’s Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o169'>169</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>24.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>In the Botanic Garden, Oxford</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o176'>176</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>25.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>The Pride of Spring, Surrey</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o185'>185</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>26.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Rose Garden in Berkshire</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o192'>192</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>27.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Shepherd of Coniston</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o201'>201</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>28.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Dovecote in a Sussex Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o208'>208</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>29.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Northamptonshire Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o217'>217</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>30.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Path in a Rose Garden</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o224'>224</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>31.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>A Churchyard in the Cotswolds</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o235'>235</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c008'>32.</td>
<td class='c009'><span class='sc'>Autumn Colour at Bonchurch Old Church near Ventnor</span></td>
<td class='c010'><a href='#o238'>238</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c006'>PART I<br /> <br />A VIEW OF ENGLAND</h2>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>
<h2 class='c006'>I<br /> <br />THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Once, I remember well, when I was hungering for a
breath of country air, a woman, brown with the caresses
of the wind and sun, brought the Spring to my door and
sold it to me for a penny. The husky rough scent of
those Primroses gave me news of England that I longed
to hear. When I had placed my flowers in a bowl and
put them on the table where I worked, they told me
stories of the lanes and woods, how thrushes sang, and
the wild Cherry Blossom flared delicately across the
purpling trees.</p>
<p class='c012'>A flower often will reclaim a mood when nothing else
will bring it back.</p>
<p class='c012'>To garden, to garner up the seasons in a little space,
is part of every wise man’s philosophy. To sow the
seeds, to watch the tender shoots come out and brave
the light and rain, to see the buds lift up their heads,
and then to catch one’s breath as the flowers open and
display their precious colours, living, breathing jewels,
is enough to live for. But there is more than that. A
man may choose the feast to spread before his eyes,
may sow old memories and see them grow, and feel the
answering colours in his heart. This Rose he used to
pass on his way to school; it nodded to him over the
high red wall, while next to it a Purple Clematis clung,
arching over, so that, by standing on his pile of school-books,
he could reach the flowers. This patch of Golden
<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>Marigolds reminds him of a long border in the garden
where he spent his boyhood (they used to grow behind
the bee skeps, had a little place to themselves next to
the Horseradish and the early Lettuces). There’s a
hedge of Lavender full of association, he may remember
how he was allowed (or was it set him for a task?) to
cut great sheaves of it and take them to the Apple-room,
and hang them up to dry over old newspapers. To
look at Lavender brings back the curious musty smell of
that store-room, where Apples wintered on long shelves;
where the lawn-mower stood, and the brooms, and the
scythe (to cut the orchard grass), and untidy bundles
of bass hung with string and coils of wire. What a
wonderful place that store-room was, with the broken
door and the rusty lock that creaked as the big key
turned to let him in: to reach the latch he had to stand
on tip-toe, and to turn the key seemed quite a grown-up
task. There was all a garden needs stored in that room.
It had been a dining-room once, a hundred years ago,
a room where the members of a bowling club convivially
met and fought old games; bias, twist, jack,
all the terms ring in his ears, even the click of the bowls,
sharp on the summer air, comes back; and the plastered
ornamental ceiling had sagged and dropped away here
and there, showing the laths. There was a big dusty
window, across which the twisted arms of a Wisteria
stretched, and a broken window seat in it that opened
like a box to hold the bowls. Just the hedge of Lavender
brings back the picture of the boy whose cherished
dreams hung about those four walls; who, having
strung his bunches, neatly tied, on wooden pegs along
the walls, and spread his papers underneath to catch
the falling seeds, sat, book in hand, and travelled into
foreign lands with Mungo Park. There, on his left,
and facing him as well, shelves lined the walls, and Pears,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>Apples and Medlars were arranged in rows, while by
his side, placed on the window ledge to catch the sun,
were fallen Nectarines, Peaches and big yellow Plums
set to ripen.</p>
<p class='c012'>What curious things a garden store-room holds!
The tins, slopped over, of weed-killer, of patent plant
foods, of fine white sand. The twisted string, criss-crossed
upon a peg of wood, covered with whitewash,
the string that serves to guide the marker for the tennis-court.
Then an array of nets to cover Currant bushes,
and bid birds beware of Gooseberries, Cherries and ripe
Strawberries. A barrow, full of odds and ends, baskets,
queer little bags of seeds, a heap of Groundsel gathered
for a bird and lying there forgotten. Like a Dutch
picture, half in gloom with bright lights on the shears,
and along the edge of the scythe, and on the curved
wire mesh made to guard young seedlings. Empty seed
packets on the floor, bright coloured pictures of the
flowers on the outsides, a little soiled by the earth and
the gardener’s thumb.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant memories, indeed! A man may plant a host
of them and never then recapture all his joys. There’s
his first love garnishing a rustic arch, a deep yellow Rose,
beautiful in the bud—William Allen Richardson: she
wore them in her sash. He can laugh now and see the
long yellow hair floating in a cloud behind her as she
ran, and the twinkling black legs, and the merry pretty
face looking down on him from between the leaves of
the Apple-tree she climbed. He grows that Apple in his
orchard now, and toasts her memory when the first ripe
fruit of it shines on the dish before him at dessert.</p>
<p class='c012'>The Clove Carnation with its spice-like scent he bought
from a barrow in a London slum, brought with care—wrapped
in paper on the rack of the railway carriage—and
planted it here. This Picotee he hailed with joy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>in the flower-market at Saint Malo and carried it across
the sea, each bloom tied up to a friendly length of cane.
His neighbours marvel at his pains, but it recalls many
a happy day to him.</p>
<p class='c012'>There, in a corner under a nut-tree, is a grass bank
thick with Primrose plants—another memory. A picture
comes to him from the Primroses very clear, very distinct,
a picture of the world gone black, of a day when a
boy thought heaven and earth purposeless, cruel; when
he ran from a garden to the woods and threw himself on
a bank, covered with Primroses, sobbing and weeping
till the world was blotted out with his tears, because
his dog had died. It had been the first thing he had
learnt to love, the first thing he had had to care for,
to look after. All his childish ideas were whispered into
the big retriever’s silky coat. They had secret understandings,
a different language, ideas in common, and
the dog’s death was his first hint of death in the world.
Years after, when he planted this garden, he gave a
place to Don, and planted the Primroses himself. The
earth was kindly and the flowers flourished. The earth
is kindly, even your cynic knows that and marks the
spot where he hopes to lie, and thinks, not sourly, of
the Daisies over his head.</p>
<p class='c012'>There is something more than memory in a garden.
There is that urgent need man has to be part of growing
life. He must have open spaces, he takes health from
the sight of a tree in bud, from the sight of a newly
ploughed field, from a plant or so in a window-box, a
flower in his button-hole. Men, who by a thousand ties
are held at desks in cities, look up and hear a caged
thrush sing, and their thoughts fly out to fields and the
common wayside flowers, and, for a moment, the offices
are filled with the perfume—indescribable—of the open
road.</p>
<div id='o006' class='figcenter id003'>
<img src='images/opp_006.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A PRIMROSE BANK NEAR DORKING.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>There is that in the hum and business of a garden that
makes for peace; the senses are softly stirred even as
the heart finds wings. No greeting is as sweet as the
drowsy murmur of bees, in garden, lane or open heath.
No day so good as that which breaks to song of birds.
No sight so happy as the elegant confusion of flower-border
still wet and glistening with the morning dew.</p>
<p class='c012'>I heard a man once deliver a learned lecture on the
Persian character, full of history, romance and thoughtful
ideas. Towards the end of his discourse I began to
feel that he, indeed, knew the Persian inside out, but
that I could catch but a fleeting and momentary glimpse
of his knowledge. Then, by way of background to an
anecdote, he mirrored, with loving care and wealth of
detail, Oriental in its imagery and elaboration, the
gardens in a palace. There was a stream of clear water
running through the garden, and the owner had paved
the bed of the stream with exquisite old tiles; white
Irises bloomed along the banks, white Roses, growing
thickly, dropped scented petals in the stream. I have
as good as lived in that garden; I saw it so well, and
what little I know of the Persian I know from that
description. Omar is more than a dead poet to me now;
I can smell the Roses blooming over his grave.</p>
<p class='c012'>There should be a sundial in every garden to mark
the true beginning and the end of day; some noise of
water somewhere; bees; good trees to give shade to
us and shelter to the birds; a garden-house with proper
amount of flower-lore on shelves within; a walk for
scent alone, flowers grown perfume-wise; a solitary
place, if possible, where should be a nest of owls; a
spread of lawn to rest the eyes, no cut beds in it to
spoil the symmetry, and at least one border for herbaceous
plants. If this is greedy of good things leave out the
owls—that’s but a fanciful thought. Do you know
<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>what a small space this requires? Those who might be
free and yet choose to live in towns might have it all
for the price of the rent of the ground their kitchen
covers.</p>
<div id='o009' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_009.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>SIR WALTER’S SUNDIAL, ABBOTSFORD.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>There are those aching spirits to whom no land is
home, whose feet go wandering over the world; gipsy-spirits
searching one must suppose for peace of mind
in constant new sights. For them the well-ordered
garden with its high walls, its neat lawn, its fair carriage-drive,
is but a dull prison-house, and even if in the course
of their wanderings they stray into such a place their
talk is all of other lands; of scarlet twisted flowers in
Cashmere; of fields of Arum Lilies near Table Mountain;
of the sad-grey Olives and the gorgeous Orange groves
of Spain; the Poppy fields of China, or the brightly
painted Tulips growing orderly in Holland. We with
our ancestral rookery near by, our talk of last year’s
nests, or overweening pride in the soft snows of Mrs.
Simpkin’s Pinks, seem to these folk like prisoners, who
having tamed a mouse proclaim it chief of all the
animal world. But ask of the Garden of England and
the flowers it affords and see their eyes take on a far-away
look as the road calls to them, and hear them at
their own lore of roadside flowers, praising and loving
Traveller’s Joy, the gilt array of Buttercups, the dusty
pink of Ragged Robin, and the like sweet joys the vagabond
holds dear. This one can whistle like a blackbird;
that one has boiled the roots of Dandelions (Dent de Lion,
a charming name) and has been cured by their juices.
He knows that if he sees the delicate parachutes of
Dandelion, Coltsfoot, or of Thistle-fly when there is not
a breath of wind, then there will be rain. They read
the skies, hear voices in the wind, take courses from the
stars, and know the time of day from flowers. These
men, having none of the spirit that inspires your gardener,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>see the results of the work and smile pleasantly,
ask, perhaps, the name of some flower, to please you,
know something of soils, praise your Mulberries, and
admire your collection of Violas, but soon they are off
and away, breathing more freely for leaving the sheltered
peace of your well-kept place, and vanish to Spitzbergen
or the Chinese desert in search of what their souls crave.
We are different; we sit in the cool of the evening,
overlooking our sweet-scented borders, gaining joy
from the gathering night that paints out the detail of
our world, and hope quietly for a soft, gentle rain in
the night to stiffen the flowers’ drooping heads. We
English are gardeners by nature: perhaps the greyness
of our skies accounts for our desire to make our gardens
blaze with colours.</p>
<p class='c012'>We have our memories, our desire for peace, our love
of colour, and, at the back of all, something infinitely
more grand.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“No lily muffled hum of a summer bee</div>
<div class='line in1'>But finds some coupling with the spinning stars;</div>
<div class='line in1'>No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;</div>
<div class='line in1'>... Earth’s crammed with heaven,</div>
<div class='line in1'>And every common bush afire with God:</div>
<div class='line in1'>But only he who knows takes off his shoes.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>
<h2 class='c006'>II<br /> <br />THE GARDEN OF ENGLAND: THE<br />PATCHWORK QUILT</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Even your most unadventurous fellow can hardly look
on a fair prospect of fields and meadows, woods, villages
with smoking chimneys, a river, and a road, without a
certain feeling rising in him that he would like to tread
the road that winds so dapperly through the country,
and discover for himself where it leads.</p>
<p class='c012'>To those who love their country the road is but a
garden path running between borders of fair flowers
whose names and virtues should be known to every
child.</p>
<p class='c012'>A poet can weave a story from the speck of mud on a
fellow traveller’s boot—the red soil of a Devonshire lane
calls up such pictures of fern-covered banks, such
rushing streams, as make a poem in themselves.</p>
<p class='c012'>It strikes one from the very first how neatly most
of England is kept. The dip and rise of softly swelling
hills across which the curling ribbon of the road winds
leisurely between neat hedges, the fields in patches,
coloured brown and green, golden with Corn, scarlet
with Poppies, yellow with Buttercups; the circular
bunches of trees under whose shade fat cattle stand
lazily switching their tails at flies; the woods, hangers,
shaws and coppices, glades, dells, dingles and combes,
all set out so orderly and precise that, from a hill, the
country has the appearance of a patchwork quilt set in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>a pleasant irregularity, studded with straggling farms,
and little sleepy villages where the resonant note of the
church clock checks off the drowsy hours. The road
that runs through this quilt land seems like a thread
on which villages and market towns are strung, beads
of endless variety, some huddled in a bunch upon a hill,
some long and straggling, some thatched and warm,
red-bricked and creeper-covered, others white with roofs
of purple slate, others of grey stone, others of warm
yellow. All alive with birds and flowers and village
children, butterflies and trees; fed by broad rivers,
or hanging over singing streams or deep in the lush grass
of water meadows gay with kingcups.</p>
<p class='c012'>This garden is for us who care to know it. We can
take the road, our garden path, and pluck, as we will,
flowers of all kinds from our borders; sleep in our garden
on beds of bracken pulled and piled high under trees;
or on soft heaps of heather heaped under sheltering
stones. If we know our garden well enough it will give
us food—salads, fruits and nuts; it will cure us of our
ills by its herbs; feed our imagination by the quaint
names of flower and herb. Here’s a small list that will
sing a man to sleep, dreaming of England.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Poet’s Asphodel.</div>
<div class='line'>Shepherd’s Purse.</div>
<div class='line'>Our Lady’s Bedstraw.</div>
<div class='line'>Water Soldier.</div>
<div class='line'>Rowan.</div>
<div class='line'>Hound’s Tongue.</div>
<div class='line'>Gipsy Rose.</div>
<div class='line'>Fool’s Parsley.</div>
<div class='line'>Celandine.</div>
<div class='line'>Columbine.</div>
<div class='line'>Adder’s Tongue.</div>
<div class='line'>Speedwell.</div>
<div class='line'>Thorn Apple.</div>
<div class='line'>Virgin Bower.</div>
<div class='line'>Whin.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>These alone of hundreds give a lift to the day: there’s
a story to each of them.</p>
<p class='c012'>Take our England as a garden and let the eye roam
over the land. Here’s the flat country of the Fens,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>long, long vistas of fields, with spires and towers sticking
up against the sky. Plenty of rare flowers there for
your gardener, marsh flowers, water plants galore.
That’s the place to see the sky, to watch a summer
storm across the plain, to see the Poplars bending in an
angry wind, and the white windmills glare against
purple rain clouds. Few hedges here but plenty of
banks and dykes, and canals they call drains. Here you
may find Marsh Valerian, Water Crowsfoot, Frogbit,
pink Cuckoo-flowers, Bog Bean, Sundews, Sea Lavender,
and Bladder-worts. The Sundews alone will give you an
hour’s pleasure with their glistening red glands tricked
out to catch unwary flies and midges.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then there’s a wild garden waiting you by stone
walls in the dales of Derbyshire, or in the Yorkshire
wolds, or the Lancashire fells. On the open heaths,
where the grey roads wind through warm carpets of
ling and heather, you can fill your nostrils with the
sweet scent of Gorse and Thyme.</p>
<p class='c012'>I was sitting one hot afternoon, drawing the twisted
bole of a Beech tree. All the wood in which I sat was
stirring with life; the dingle below me a mist of flowers,
Primroses, Wind-flowers, Hyacinths whose bells made
the air softly fragrant. Above me the sky showed
through a trellis-work of young leaves, the distance of
the wood was purple with opening buds, and the floor
was a swaying sea of Bluebells dancing in a gentle
breeze. Squirrels chattered in the trees; now and then
a wood pigeon flopped out of a tree, and a blackbird
whistled in some hidden place.</p>
<p class='c012'>All absorbed in my work, following the grotesquely
beautiful curves of the beech roots, I heard no sound
of approaching footsteps. A voice behind me said
“Good,” and I started, dropping my pencil in my
confusion.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said the
voice.</p>
<p class='c012'>I turned round and saw a man standing behind me,
a man without a cap, with curly brown hair, and a face
coloured deep brown by the sun. He was dressed in a
faded suit of greenish tweed, wore a blue flannel shirt,
carried a thick stick in his hand, and had a worn-looking
box slung over his shoulders by a stained
leather strap.</p>
<p class='c012'>I suppose my surprise showed in my face in some comic
way, for he laughed heartily, showing a set of strong
white teeth.</p>
<p class='c012'>“No, I’m not Pan,” he said laughing, “or a keeper,
or a vision. I’m a gardener.”</p>
<p class='c012'>His admirable assurance and pleasant address were
very captivating.</p>
<p class='c012'>I asked him what he did there, and he immediately
sat down by me, pulled out a black clay pipe, and lit
up before replying. He extended the honours of his
match to my cigarette and I noticed that his hands
were well formed, and that he wore a silver ring on the
little finger of his right hand.</p>
<p class='c012'>When he had arranged himself to his comfort, propping
his back against a tree and crossing his legs, he told me
he was a gardener on a very large scale.</p>
<p class='c012'>I wished him joy of his garden, at which he smiled
broadly, and informed me in the most matter-of-fact
way that he gardened the whole of Great Britain.</p>
<p class='c012'>For a moment I wondered if I had fallen in with an
amiable lunatic, but a closer inspection of his face
showed me he was sane, uncommonly healthy, and, I
judged, a clever man.</p>
<p class='c012'>“A vast garden?” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>Without exactly replying to my remark, which was put
half in the manner of a question, he said, partly to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>himself, “The slight fingers of April. Do you notice how
delicate everything is?”</p>
<p class='c012'>I had noticed. The air was full of suggestion, the
flowers were very fairylike, the green of the trees very
tender.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Pied April,” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>Instead of answering me again he unstrapped the box
that now lay beside him on the grass, opened it and
took from it a beautiful Fritillaria.</p>
<p class='c012'>“There’s one of the April Princesses, if you like,” he
said. “There are not many about here, just an odd
one or two; plenty near Oxford though.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“You know Oxford?” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Guess again,” he said, smiling. “I’m no Oxford
man, but I know the woods about there well. Please
go on working; I’ll talk.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I was about to look at my watch when he stopped
me.</p>
<p class='c012'>“It’s half-past two,” he said. “The slant of the sun
on the leaves ought to tell you that.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I was amused, interested in the man; he was so odd
and quaint. “I’ve not eaten my lunch yet,” I said.
“Perhaps you’ll share it with me.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I was wondering if you’d invite me,” he replied.
“I’m rather hungry.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I had, luckily, enough for two. Slices of ham, some
cheese, a loaf of new bread, and a full flask. Very soon
we were eating together like old friends.</p>
<p class='c012'>In an inconsequent way he asked me what I thought
of the name of Noakes.</p>
<p class='c012'>I said it was as good as any other.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Let’s have it Noakes, then,” he said, laughing again.
A very merry man.</p>
<p class='c012'>“About this garden of yours, Mr. Noakes?” I asked.</p>
<p class='c012'>He tapped his wooden box and said, “If you want to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>know, I’m a herbalist. You can scarcely call me a
civilised being, except on occasions when I do go among
my fellow men to winter.” He pulled a cap and a pair
of gloves out of his pocket. “My titles to respectability,”
he said.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And in the Spring?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I take to the road with the Coltsfoot and the Butterburrs.
I come out with the first Violet, and the Pussy-cat
Willow. I wander, all through the year, up and
down the length and breadth of England, with my box
of herbs. I get my bread and cheese that way—while
you draw for pleasure.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Partly.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“It must be for pleasure, or you wouldn’t take so
much pains. I suppose you think I’m a very disgraceful
person, a bad citizen, a worse patriot. But I
know the news of the world better than those who
read newspapers. Although I trade on superstitions,
I do no harm.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Do you sell your herbs?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Colchicum for gout—Autumn Crocus, you know it,”
he replied. “Willow-bark quinine; Violet distilled,
for coughs. Not a bad trade—besides, it keeps me
free.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I hazarded a question. “Tell me—you must observe
these things—do swifts drink as they fly? It has often
puzzled me.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I don’t know,” said he. “Ask Mother Nature.
Some of these things are the province of professors.
I’m not a learned man; just a herbalist.”</p>
<p class='c012'>At that moment a thrush began to sing in a tree
overhead. My friend cocked his head, just like an
animal.</p>
<p class='c012'>“There’s the wise thrush,” he quoted softly, “he
sings his song twice over.”</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>“So you read Browning,” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I have a garret and a library,” he said. “Winter
quarters. We shall meet one day, and you’ll be surprised.
I actually possess two dress suits. It’s a mad world.”
He stopped abruptly to listen to the thrush. “This is
better than the Carlton or Delmonico’s, anyhow!”</p>
<p class='c012'>“What do you do?” I asked. “Go from village to
village selling herbs?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“That’s about it. Lord! Listen to that bird. I
heard and saw a nightingale sing once in a shaw near
Ewelme. I think a thrush is the better musician, though.
Yes, I sell my herbs, all sorts and kinds. Drugs and
ointments, very simple I assure you—Hemlock and
Poppy to cure the toothache. Wood Sorrel—full of
oxalic acid, you know, like Rhubarb—for fevers. Aconite
for rheumatics—very popular medicine I make of that,
sells like hot cakes in water meadow land, so does
Agrimony for Fen ague. Tansy and Camomile for liver—excellent.
Hellebore for blisters, and Cowslip pips
for measles—I’m a regular quack, you see.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“And it’s worth doing, is it?”</p>
<p class='c012'>He leaned back, his pipe between his lips, a very
contented man. “Worth doing!” he said. “Worth
owning England, with all the wonderful mornings, and
the clean air; worth waking up to the scent of Violets;
worth lying on your back near a Bean field on a summer
day; worth seeing the Bracken fronds uncurl; watching
kingfishers; worth having the fields and hedgerows for a
garden, full of flowers always—I should think so. I
earn my bread, and I’m happy, far happier than most
men. I can lend a hand at haymaking, at the harvest;
at sheep-shearing, at the cider press, at hoeing, when
I’m tired of my own company. I’ve worked the seines
in the mackerel season on the South coast—do you
know the bend of shore by Lyme and Charmouth?
<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>I’ve ploughed in the Lowlands, and found lost sheep in
the Lake Country; caught moles for a living in Norfolk,
and cut Hop-poles in Kent, and Heather in the Highlands.—And
I’m not forty, and I’m never ill.”</p>
<div id='o016' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_016.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>THE WEALD OF KENT SHOWING THE COUNTRY LIKE A PATCHWORK QUILT.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>“It sounds delightful.”</p>
<p class='c012'>He rose to his feet and gave me his hand.</p>
<p class='c012'>“We shall meet again,” he said laughing. “Perhaps
in the conventional armour of starched shirts and inky
black. For the present—to my work,” he pointed over
his shoulder. “I’m building hen-coops for a widow.
<i>Hasta luego.</i>”</p>
<p class='c012'>With that he vanished as quietly as he came. Almost
as soon as the trees had hidden him from my sight, a
blackbird began to whistle, then stopped, and a laugh
came out of the woods.</p>
<p class='c012'>Altogether a very strange man.</p>
<p class='c012'>I found, when he had gone, that he had written
something on a piece of paper and had pinned it to the
tree with a long thorn. It was this:</p>
<p class='c012'>“I think, very likely, you may not know Ben Jonson’s
‘Gipsy Benediction.’ If you don’t, accept the offering as
a return for my excellent lunch.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“The faerybeam upon you—</div>
<div class='line in1'>The stars to glisten on you—</div>
<div class='line in3'>A moon of light</div>
<div class='line in3'>In the noon of night,</div>
<div class='line in1'>Till the firedrake hath o’er gone you!</div>
<div class='line in1'>The wheel of fortune guide you;</div>
<div class='line in1'>The boy with the bow beside you;</div>
<div class='line in1'>Run aye in the way</div>
<div class='line in1'>Till the bird of day,</div>
<div class='line in1'>And the luckier lot, betide you.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>He signed, at the foot, “Noakes, Under the Greenwood
Tree.” And he seemed to have written some of his
clear laughter into it.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>
<h2 class='c006'>III<br /> <br />A COUNTRY LANE: A MEMORY<br />FROM ABROAD</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>I was looking at a vision of the world upside down,
mirrored in the deep blue of a still sea. Where the
inverted picture of my boat gleamed white, and the
rope that moored her to a tree showed grey, I saw the
dark fir trees growing upside down, the bank of emerald
grass looking more brilliant because of the grey-green
lichened rocks; a black rock, glistening, hung with
brown seaweed, made the vision clear, and, over all,
clouds chased each other in the sky, seemingly below
me. They were those round fleecy clouds, like sheep,
and they reminded me of something I could not quite
arrest.</p>
<p class='c012'>A fish swam—dash—across my mirror, another and
another, rippling the sky, the trees, the bank, distorting
everything. Then I looked up and saw a fishing-boat
come sailing by with its great orange and
tawny sails all set out to catch the land breeze; and
bright blue nets hung out ready, floating and billowing
in the slight wind. There was a creaking of ropes
and a hum of Breton as the sailors talked. From my
moorings by the island I watched her sail—<i>Saint Nicholas</i>
she was called, and had a little figure of the Madonna
on her stern. Out of the land-locked harbour she
slipped, tacking to make the neck that led to the outer
harbour, and there she was going to meet other gaily
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>coloured ships and sail with them to the sardine grounds
off the coast of Spain.</p>
<p class='c012'>After she had passed, leaving her wide white wake
in the still waters, I followed her in my mind, seeing
the nets cast and the shimmering silver fish drawn
up, and the long loaves of bread eaten, with wine and
onions, until the waters round me were quiet again,
and I could look once more into my mirror and wonder
what it was the flocks of clouds said to my brain.</p>
<p class='c012'>It came in a flash. Big Claus said to Little Claus,
“After I threw you into the river in the sack, where
did you get all those sheep and cattle?” And Little
Claus said, “Out of the river, brother, for there I
came upon a man in beautiful meadows, and he was
tending the sheep and cattle. There were so many
that he gave me a flock of sheep and a herd of cattle
for myself, and I drove them out of the river and up
here to graze.” Now they were looking over the bridge
at the time, and the description Little Claus gave of
the meadows and the sheep below in the river made
the mouth of Big Claus begin to water with greed. As
they looked, Little Claus pointed excitedly at the water,
and said, “Look, brother, there go a flock of sheep
under your very nose.” It was, really, nothing but
the reflection of the clouds in the water, but Big Claus
was too interested to think of this, and he implored
his brother to tie him in a sack and push him into the
water, that he, too, might get some of these wonderful
herds. This Little Claus did, and that was the end of
Big Claus.</p>
<p class='c012'>How well I remember now—so well that when I
looked into the water and saw the fleecy clouds go
floating by, the picture changed for me and I saw an
English country lane, and a small boy sitting under a
hedge out of a summer shower, and he was deep in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>dreams over an old brown volume of “Grimm’s Fairy
Tales.”</p>
<p class='c012'>How wonderful the lane smelt after the rain! The
Honeysuckle filled the air and mingled with the smell
of warm wet earth. It was a deep lane, with the high
hedges grown so rank and wild that they nearly crossed
overhead, and the curved arms of the Dog Roses criss-crossed
against the patch of turquoise sky. The thin
new thread of a single wire crossed high overhead,
shining like gold in the sun. It went, I knew, to the
Coast Guard Station below me, and I remember clearly
how I used to wonder what flashed across the wire to
those fortunate men: news of thrilling wrecks, of
smugglers creeping round the point, of battle-ships
put out to sea, and other tales the sailors told me.</p>
<p class='c012'>The lane was deep and twisted, and so narrow that
when a flock of sheep was driven down it, the dogs
ran across the backs of the sheep to head off stragglers.
What a cloud of white dust they made, and how thick
it lay on the leaves and flowers until the rain washed
them clean again.</p>
<p class='c012'>On the day of which I was dreaming, there had been
one of those sharp angry storms, very short and fierce,
with growling thunder in the distance, and purple and
deep grey clouds flying along with torn, rust-coloured
edges. I had sheltered under a quick-set hedge (set,
that is, while the thorn was alive—quick, and bent
into a kind of wattle pattern by men with sheepskin
gloves) and where I sat, under a wayfaring tree (the
Guelder Rose), the lane had a double turn, fore and
aft, so that a space of it was quite shut off, like an
island. I had my garden here and knew all the flowers
and the butterflies.</p>
<p class='c012'>On this day the rain washed the Foxgloves and
made them gay and bright, each bell with a sparkling
<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>drop of water on its lips. The Brambles had long
rows of drops on them, all shining like jewels, until a
yellow-hammer perched on one of the arched sprays
and shook all the raindrops off in a fluster of bright
light.</p>
<p class='c012'>Behind me, and in front, trailing Black Bryony
twisted its arms round Traveller’s Joy, Honeysuckle
and Wild Roses. Here and there, pink and white Bindweed
hung, clinging to the hedge. By me, on the
bank, Monkshood, Our Lady’s Cushion, and Butterfly
Orchis grew, all shining with the rain, and the Silverweed
shone better than them all.</p>
<p class='c012'>Presently came two great cart horses, their trappings
jingling, down my lane, and on the back of one, riding
sideways, a small boy, swaying as he rode. His face
was a perfect country poem, blue eyes, shaded by a
battered hat of felt, into the band of which a Dog Rose
was stuck. His hair, like Corn, shone in the sun, and
his face, red and freckled, a blue shirt, faded by many
washings and sun-bleached to a fine colour, thick
boots, a hard horny young fist, and in his mouth a
long stem of feathery grass. He looked as much part
of Nature as the flowers themselves. There was some
sort of greeting as he passed. I can see the group
now; the slow patient horses, the boy, the yellow
canvas coat slung to dry across the horse’s neck, a
straw basket, from which a bottle neck protruded,
hitched on the horse’s collar. They passed the bend
in the lane and the boy began to whistle an aimless
tune, but very good to hear. And it was England,
every bit of it, the kind of thing one hungers for when
a southern sun is beating pitilessly on one’s head, or
when the rains in the tropics bring out overpowering
scents, heavy and stifling.</p>
<p class='c012'>So I might have dreamed on about this garden lane
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>I carried in my mind, had not the tide turned and little
waves begun to lop the sides of my boat.</p>
<p class='c012'>I slipped my moorings, shipped the oars, and sailed
home quietly on the tide under a clear blue sky from
which all the clouds had vanished like my dream.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>
<h2 class='c006'>IV<br /> <br />FIELDS</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>A man will tell you how he has walked to such and such
a place “across the fields,” with an air of saying,
“You, I suppose, not knowing the country, painfully
pursue the highroad.” He has the look of one who
has made the discovery that it is good and wise to
leave the beaten track, the cart rut, and the plain
and obvious road, and has adventured in a daring
spirit from stile to stile, from gate to ditch, where only
the knowing ones may go. He is generally so occupied
in the pride of reaching his destination by these means,
that he has had little time to look about him and enjoy
the expanse of country. For all that, he is a man
after my own heart for, in a sense, he becomes part
owner of England with me as soon as he puts his leg
across a stile and begins to cast an eye across country.</p>
<p class='c012'>There is an extraordinary satisfaction in following
a footpath, that is made doubly sweet if one sucks in
the joy of the day, and the blitheness of that through
which we pass. To be knee-high in a bean field in
flower is as good a thing as I know, more especially
if it be on a hillside overlooking the sea.</p>
<p class='c012'>I sat once on the polished rail of a stile (very well
made with cross arms to hold by, like two short step-ladders,
each with one long arm) and looked at a path
I had taken that lay through a field of whispering oats.
They seemed to hold a thousand secrets that they passed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>from ear to ear all down the field, and when the breeze
came, and blew birds across the hedge, the whole field
swayed, showing a rustling, silken surface, as if it
enjoyed a great joke. The Poppies and Cornflowers
and the White Convolvulus had no part in the conversation
of the Oats, but field mice had, and ran across the
path hurrying like urgent messengers, and once a mole
nosed its way from the earth by my stile and vanished
grumbling—like some gruff old gentleman—along the
hedgerow. I never saw a field laugh as much as that
field, or be so frivolous, or so feminine. The field at
my back was more like a great lady in a green velvet
gown, embroidered with Daisies. There, at the bottom
of the field, was a pond like a bright blue eye in the
green, and lazy cattle, red and white, stood in it, while
others lay under a chestnut tree near by.</p>
<p class='c012'>Down in the valley, a long undulating spread before
me, fields of different hues, some green, some brown,
some golden with ripe Corn, lay baked in the heat,
quivering under a calm blue sky. In one field a man
was sharpening a scythe with a whetstone—the rasp
came floating up to me clearly, and presently he began
to open a field of wheat for the reaping machine I could
see, with men round her, under a clump of trees. Next
to this field was a narrow strip of coarse grass all aglow
with Buttercups, then a wide triangular field, with a
pit in the corner of it, snowed over with Daisies, and
then a farm looking like a toy place, neat with white
painted railings, and a dovecote, and a long barn covered
over with yellow Stone Crop. I could see—all in
miniature—the farmer come out of his house door,
beckon to a dog, and walk past a row of Hollyhocks
and a flush of pink Sweet Williams, open the gate and
cross a road to the Corn-field. The dog leapt ahead of
him, barking joyously.</p>
<div id='o025' class='figcenter id004'>
<img src='images/opp_025.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>POPPIES IN SURREY.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>A little further down, and cut off partly from view
by the May tree that sheltered me, was a village, white
and grey, sheltered by Elm trees. In the midst of the
handful of cottages the square-towered flint church
stood with Ivy on the tower and dark Yews in the
churchyard. The graves in the churchyard looked
like the Daisies in the distant field, as if they grew
there. At the back of the church, and facing the high
road, was a line of trees from whence came an incessant
noise of rooks.</p>
<p class='c012'>Very few things moved on the high road, a lumbering
waggon, the doctor’s trap, a bicycle, and then the
carrier’s cart with a man I knew driving it, a very
pleasant man who preached in the Sion Chapel on
Sundays and chalked up texts in the tilt of his waggon—but
with a shrewd eye to business: a man who
never forgave a debt.</p>
<p class='c012'>As I sat on my stile I felt this was all mine: no
person there knew the beauty of it as I did, or cared
to capture its sweetness as I did. No one but I saw
the field of Oats laugh, or cared to note the business of
the dragon fly, or the flashing patterns of the butterflies.
I had seen these fields turned up, rich and brown,
under the plough, and tender green when the seeds
came up, and waving green, and gold when they bore
their harvest of Corn, or silver and green with roots
and red with Beets. I had counted the sheep on the
hillsides, and watched the cattle stray in a long line
to be milked at milking time, and though I did not
farm an acre of it, I owned it with my heart, and gathered
its harvest with my eyes.</p>
<p class='c012'>Every field footpath had its story, the road was
rich in old romance, and hidden by the trees at
the head of the valley was the big house where my
hostess lived and with a loving hand directed all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>this little world—but I doubt if she owned it more
than I.</p>
<p class='c012'>To end all this, comes a little maid through the Oats,
almost hidden by them, her face quivering with tears
because of a misplaced trust in a bunch of Nettles.
So we apply Dock leaves and a penny, and a farthing’s
worth of country wisdom, and part friends—I to the
head of the valley, she to her father’s farm on the other
side of the hill.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>
<h2 class='c006'>V<br /> <br />EPISODE OF THE CONTENTED TAILOR</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Not a hundred yards out of a certain village I came
across a little man dressed in grey. We were alone
on the road, we were going in the same direction, and
I came to learn that he travelled with as little purpose
as I.</p>
<p class='c012'>As soon as I saw his face, his jaunty walk, his knapsack
and his stick, I knew him for a friend.</p>
<p class='c012'>I hailed him. He stopped, smiled pleasantly, and
fell in with my stride. We soon found a mutual bond
of esteem. It appeared we were out in search of adventures.</p>
<p class='c012'>He explained to me, quite simply, that he was not
going anywhere, and that he proposed to be some four
months about it.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Just walking about looking at things,” he volunteered.</p>
<p class='c012'>“That is my case,” I replied.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I’m a tailor, sir,” said he.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Having a look at the cut of the country?”</p>
<p class='c012'>He gave a little friendly nod.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And do you tailor as you go along?” I asked, for
I had never met a travelling tailor before: tinkers
galore; haberdashers aplenty; patent medicine men
a few; sailors; old soldiers (the worst); apothecaries
I have mentioned; gentlemen, many; ploughboys,
purse thieves, one or two, and ugly customers—they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>were in a dark lane—but a tailor, never. It
seemed all the world could tread the high road but a
tailor. Then I remembered my fairy tales—“Seven at
a Blow”—and laughed aloud.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I’ve given up my trade,” he explained, as we began
to mount the hill. “No more sitting on a bench for
me in the spring or summer. I do a bit in the winter,
but I’m a free man on two pounds ten a week.”</p>
<p class='c012'>And he was young—forty at the most.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Put by?” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>He smiled again. “Not quite, sir. I had a little
bit put by, but a brother of mine went to Australia,
and made a fortune—he died, poor Tom, and left his
money to me and my sister. Two pound ten a week
for each of us.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“And it has brought you—this,” I explained, pointing
with my stick at the expanse of country. “It’s
like a romance.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Isn’t it?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Then you read romances?” I asked quickly.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I read all I can lay hands on,” he replied. “I’m
living just as my sister and I dreamed we’d live if ever
something wonderful happened.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“And it has happened?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“You’re right, sir. My sister lives in the little
cottage I bought with my savings. She’s got all she
wants—all anybody might want, you might say. A
cottage, six-roomed, all white, with a Pink Rose growing
over the porch, and a canary in a cage in the parlour.
Then there’s a garden, and a bit of orchard, and bees
and a river at the bottom of the little meadow, and a
Catholic Church within a stone’s throw—so it’s all
right. She’s a rare good gardener, is my sister.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I envy you both,” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>He looked me up and down for a moment before
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>speaking. “No cause for you to do that, I expect,
sir.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Well, you know what you want, and you’ve got it.”</p>
<p class='c012'>We had reached the crest of the hill now after a
longish climb. It was a hot day and I proposed a rest.
Besides, it was one o’clock and I was hungry.</p>
<p class='c012'>I had four hard boiled eggs, and he had bread and
cheese—we divided our goods evenly, and ate comfortably
under a hedge in a field.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I’ve often sat on my bench,” he said, “and looked
out at the sun in the dusty street and wondered if I
should ever be able to sit out in it on the grass and
have nothing to do. We used to go for a day in the
country, I and my sister, whenever I could spare the
money, and it was a holiday. You wouldn’t believe
what the sight of green fields and trees meant to me
and my sister: you see the hedgerows were the only
garden we could afford, and we could ill-afford that.
My sister used to talk about the Roses she’d have,
and the Carnations, and the Sunflowers and Asters,
when our ship came home. It came home—think of
that.” He stretched his limbs luxuriously. “And
here we are with everything, and more.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“And more?” I asked.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Well, you see, it is more, somehow. I’m ‘me’ now—do
you follow the idea? I never knew what it was
to be on my own: just ‘me.’ I can lie abed now as
long as I want to, I can wear what I like, do what I
like. And I’ve a garden of my own.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“But you don’t stop there,” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Well,” he said, “I wonder if you’d know what I
meant if I said that a garden and sitting about is a
bit too much for me for the present. I want to walk
and walk in the open air, and see things, and stretch
my legs a bit to get rid of twenty odd years of the bench.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>I want to run up the top of hills and shout because—well,
because I feel as if I had a right to shout when
the sun is shining.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I quite understand that,” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And then,” he went on, and his face showed the
joy he felt, “everything is so wonderful. Look at
that village we came through: those people there feel
the same as you and me. They’ve got to express themselves
somehow, so they grow flowers right out into
the road, just as a gift to you and me. A sort of something
comes to them that they must have flowers at the
front door. Whenever I see a good garden, full of
Pinks and Roses and Larkspur, I get a bed at that
cottage, if I can. I’ve slept all over the place, all over
England, you might say; and cheap, too.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“That was a beautiful village, below there,” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>He nodded wisely. “Seems as if they’d decorated
the street on purpose to make the cottages look
as if they grew like the flowers. All the porches
covered with Honeysuckle and Roses, and everlasting
Peas, and flowers up against the windows.
I’ve a perfect craze for flowers—can’t think where I
get it from.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“You are the real gardener,” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I believe I am,” he said. “And why I took to
tailoring beats me, now. My father was a butcher.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I pointed over my shoulder towards the village.
“Do you live in a place like that?” I asked.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Better than that,” he answered proudly. “It
took me nearly two years to find the place my sister
and I had dreamed of. We wanted a cottage in a
county as much like a garden as possible. I found it—in
Devonshire; my eye, it’s a wonderful place, all orchards.
In the blossom time it looks like—well, as if it was
expecting somebody, it’s so beautiful.”</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>“I know,” I said. “Sometimes the country dresses
itself as if a lover were coming.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Do you ever read Browning?” he asked. “Because
he answers a lot of questions for me.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“For me too.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Well,” he said, and reddened shyly as he said it;
“do you remember the poem that ends</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>‘What if that friend happened to be God?’”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>I understood perfectly. He was a man of soul, my
tailor.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I expect you are surprised to find I read a lot,”
he went on in his artless way. “But when I was a boy
I was in a book shop, before my father lost all his money,
and put me out to be a tailor. My mother was a lady’s
maid, and she encouraged me to read. There was a
priest, Father Brown, who helped me too; it was from
him I first learned to love flowers.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Then, as you are a Catholic, you know what to-day
is,” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>“The twenty-ninth of August. No, sir, I’m afraid I
don’t.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“It is dedicated to one of our patron Saints—there
are two for gardeners—Saint Phocas, a Greek, and
Saint Fiacre, an Irishman. To-day is the day of Saint
Phocas.”</p>
<p class='c012'>The tailor crossed himself reverently.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I’ll tell you the story if you like.” And, as he lay
on his back, I told him the little legend of</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='sc'>Saint Phocas: Patron Saint of Gardeners</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>“At the end of the third century there lived a certain
good man called Phocas, who had a little dwelling
outside the gates of the city of Sinope, in Pontus.
He had a small garden in which he grew flowers and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>vegetables for the poor and for his own needs. Prayer,
love of his labour, and care for the things he grew filled
his life.”</p>
<p class='c012'>My tailor interrupted here to ask, apologetically,
what manner of garden Saint Phocas would have.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Neat beds,” said I—for I had gone into the matter
myself—“edged with box. The flowers and vegetables
growing together. Violets, Leeks, Onions, with Crocuses,
Narcissus, and Lilies. Then, in their season, Gladiolus,
Hyacinths, Iris, Poppies, and plenty of Roses. Melons,
also, and Gherkins, Peaches, Plums, Apples and Pomegranates,
Olives, Almonds, Medlars, Cherries, and Pears,
of which quite thirty kinds were known. In his house,
on the window ledge, if he had one, he may have grown
Violets and Lilies in window pots, for they did that in
those days.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Now, isn’t that interesting?” said the tailor.
“My sister will care to know that. I shouldn’t be a
bit surprised to find her putting a statue of Saint Phocas
over the door. She’s all for figures.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I’m afraid,” said I, “there will be some trouble
over that. There is a statue of him in Saint Mark’s
in Venice, a great old man with a fine beard, dressed
like a gardener, and holding a spade in his hand. There’s
one of him, too, in the Cathedral at Palermo, but I
have never seen them copied. Now I must tell you the
rest of the story.</p>
<p class='c012'>“There were days, you know, when Christians were
hunted out and killed. One evening there came to the
house of the Saint, two strangers. It was the habit
of this good man to give of what he had to all travellers,
food, rest, water to bathe their feet, and a kindly welcome.
On this occasion the Saint performed his hospitable
offices as usual—set the strangers at his board,
prepared a meal for them, and led them afterwards to a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>place where they might sleep. Before going to rest
they told him their errand; they were searching for a
certain man of the name of Phocas, a Christian, and,
having found him, they were to slay him. When they
were asleep, the Saint, after offering up his prayers,
went into his garden and dug a grave in the middle of
the flower beds.</p>
<p class='c012'>“The morning came, and the strangers prepared to
depart, but the Saint, standing before them, told them
he was the very man whom they sought. A horror
seized them that they should have eaten with the man
they had set out to kill, but Saint Phocas, leading them
to the grave among the flowers, bid them do their
work. They cut off his head, and buried him in his
own garden, in the grave he had dug.”</p>
<div id='o032' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_032.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>PORCHES GROWN OVER WITH HONEYSUCKLE AND ROSES AT BROADWAY IN THE COTSWOLDS.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The little tailor was silent. I lit my pipe, and began
to put my traps together.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then he spoke. “I couldn’t do that, you know.
Those martyrs—by gum!”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Death,” said I, “was life to them. Their life was
only a preparation for death.”</p>
<p class='c012'>The tailor sat up. “My sister’s like that,” he said.
“She’s bought a tombstone—think of that. Said she’d
like to have it by her. She’s a one for a bargain, if you
like; saw this tombstone marked ‘Cheap,’ in a stonemason’s
yard down our way, and went in at once to
ask the price. She’d price anything, my sister would.
You’ve only got to mark a thing down ‘Cheap’ and
she’s after the price in a minute.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“How did the tombstone come to be marked
‘cheap’?” I asked, laughing with him.</p>
<p class='c012'>“It was this way,” said the tailor. Then he turned,
in his inconsequent way to me. “I wonder,” he said,
“if, as you’re so kind as to take an interest, you’d
care to see our cottage. We’d be proud, my sister and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>I, if you would come. If you are just walking about
for pleasure, perhaps you’d come down as far as that
one day and—and, well, sir, it’s very humble, but we’d
do our best.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“When shall you be there?” I said. “Because I
want to come very much.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I’m going back; I’m on my way now,” he said;
“I always go back two or three times in the summer
just to tell her the news. I tell her what’s happened,
and what flowers they grow where I’ve been. If you
would really come, sir, perhaps you’d come in three
weeks from now, if you have nothing better to do. I’d
let her know.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Then she could tell me the story of the tombstone
herself?” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>It ended at that. He wrote the address for me in my
sketch-book, and took his leave of me in characteristic
fashion.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I hope I’m not taking a liberty,” he said, as he
jerked his knapsack into a comfortable place between
his shoulders.</p>
<p class='c012'>“There’s nothing I should like better,” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>“You’ll like the garden,” he said as an inducement.</p>
<p class='c012'>And this was how I came to hear the story of the
“Tailor’s Sister’s Tombstone.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VI<br /> <br />THE BLUEBELL WOOD AND THE CALM<br />STONE DOG</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Man is an autobiographical animal, he speaks only
from his thimbleful of human experience, and the I, I, I,
of his talk drops out like an insistent drip of water.
Even the knowledge we gain from books has to be
grafted on to the knowledge we have of life before it
bears fruit in our minds. Like patient clerks we are
always adding up the columns of facts, fancies, and
ideas, and arriving at the very tiny total at the end
of the day.</p>
<p class='c012'>In order to give themselves scope when they wish
to soliloquise, many authors address their conversation
to a cat, a grandfather clock, a dog, a picture on
the wall, or what-not. Cats, I think, have the preference.
I have often wondered what Crome, the
painter, said to his cat when he pulled hairs out of her
to make paint-brushes; or what Doctor Johnson said
to his cat Hodge, about Boswell. Having explained
this much, I may easily be forgiven for repeating the
conversation I had with a Stone Dog who sat on his
haunches outside the door of a woodman’s cottage.</p>
<p class='c012'>The cottage stood on the edge of a wood, and was,
as I shall point out, a remnant of departed glory, of
which the dog was the most pertinent reminder.</p>
<p class='c012'>A cottage on the borders of a wood is in itself one of
the most valuable pictures for a romance. A woodcutter
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>may be in league with goodness knows how
many fairies, elves, and witches. It is a place where
heroes meet heroines; where kings in disguise eat
humble pie; where dukes, lost in hunting a white stag,
meet enchanted princesses.</p>
<p class='c012'>The wood, of which I speak, was once, years ago—about
three hundred years—part of the park of Tanglewood
Court, an extensive property, an old house, a
great family possession.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gone, like last winter’s snow, were the family of
Bois; gone the pack; gone the glories of the great
family; gone the portraits, the armour, the very
windows of Tanglewood Court, of which but a fine
ruin remained. And the lane, a mere cart track, was
all that was left of the fine sweep of drive to the house;
and a tangled undergrowth under ancient trees all
that stood for the grand avenue down which my Lord
Bois had once ridden so madly. They call the lane
Purgatory Lane, and they tell a story of wild doings
and of a beautiful avenue, that cannot have its place
here.</p>
<p class='c012'>The great gates that once swung open to admit the
carriage of Perpetua Bois (of the red hair, the full
voluptuous figure, the smile Sir Peter Lely painted)
were now two stone stumps at the feet of which two
slots, green and worn, showed where the hinges had
been. These fine gates once boasted, on the top of
stone pillars, the greyhounds of Bois in stone. One of
these dogs had been rescued from the undergrowth
by the woodcutter, the other lies broken and bramble-covered
in the wood. I wonder if they miss each other.</p>
<p class='c012'>So you see I was addressing myself to a high-born
Jacobean dog.</p>
<p class='c012'>This dog, very calm and dignified, with a stone tail
and a back worn smooth by wind and weather, sat
<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>with his back to the cottage which had been built out
of the remains of the old stone lodge by a gentleman of
the name of Bellington, who was afterwards found
drowned in the lake. That lake held many secrets,
indeed, some said (the woodcutter’s wife told me this)
it held Lady Perpetua’s jewels. That did not concern
me, for it held for me the finer jewels of Water
Lilies that grew there in profusion, though I will not
deny that the idea of Lady Perpetua gave an added
touch of romance. How often had the clear water of
the lake reflected her satin-clad figure and the forms of
her little toy spaniels?</p>
<p class='c012'>It so happening, I sat by the Stone Dog, on a wooden
seat, to eat my lunch one day, and dropped into conversation
with him, after a bite or two, in the most
natural way in the world.</p>
<p class='c012'>There was the wood in front of us, blue-purple with
wild Hyacinths. There was the old cottage behind
clothed with rambling Creepers; a carpet of smooth
rabbit-worn grass at our feet; a profusion of Primroses,
Wind Flowers, and budding trees before our
eyes. There was also the enchanting hum of wild bees
(like those wild bees Horace knew, that sought the
mountain of Matinus in Calabria, and there “laboriously
gathered the grateful thyme”) to soothe us in our
solitude.</p>
<p class='c012'>I addressed him then, “Stone Dog,” I said, “this
is a very beautiful wood. Nature, laughing at the
ghosts of the Bois family, steel-clad, periwigged, or
patched, has reclaimed her own.”</p>
<p class='c012'>The dog answered me never a word but kept his gaze
fixed in front of him as if he saw visions in the wood.</p>
<p class='c012'>“This was a Park once,” said I, “the pleasure-ground
of great folk, where they might sport in playful
dalliance”—I thought that sounded rather Jacobean.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>But, as I looked at him, it seemed, as though he
listened for the sound of wheels, and turned his sightless
eyes to look for the figure of Lady Perpetua.</p>
<p class='c012'>“She was very fair,” I said, understanding him,
knowing that he had seen many generations drive
through the gates he sat to guard. “She would come
down to the lodge-keeper’s house to take her breakfast
draught of small ale. Poor Lady Perpetua, she was a
good house wife, and saw to the pickling of Nasturtium
buds, and Lime Tree buds, and Elder roots; and ordered
the salting of the winter beef; and looked to it that
plenty of Parsnips were stored to eat with it. What
sights you must have seen!”</p>
<p class='c012'>Even as I talked there emanated from the Stone
Dog some atmosphere of the past, and we were once
more in a fair English park, with its orangeries, and
houses of exotic plants, and its maze, and leaden statues,
and cut yew trees, and lordly peacocks. The great
trees had been cut down, and the timber sold; acres
of land, once grazing ground for herds of deer, were
ploughed; here, in front of us, was the tangled wood,
a corner of what was, once, a wild garden—a fancy of
Lady Perpetua’s, no doubt, who loved solitudes, and
sentimental poetry:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“I could not love thee, dear, so much;</div>
<div class='line in1'>Loved I not honour more.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Perhaps it was here she met young Hervey; perhaps
it was here Lord Bois found them, cutting initials on
one of those very trees, G. H. and P. B. and two hearts
with an arrow through them. Ah! then the smile
Sir Peter Lely painted faded to a quiver of the lips.
Lord Bois looked at the trembling mouth and his glance
flew to the initials on the tree. “So this is why, madam,”
I could hear him say, “you took to sylvan glades like
a timid deer; so this is why you coaxed me up to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>London, leaving you alone—but, not unprotected.” I
could see his sneering bow to young Hervey—a bow
that was a blow.</p>
<p class='c012'>And all the while I was only seeing with the Stone
Dog’s eyes. There was just the rippling sea of wild
Hyacinths, the pale gold of the Primroses, the innocent
white of the wood Anemones—like fairies’ washing—and
the purple haze of bursting buds.</p>
<p class='c012'>Once the Stone Dog had looked along an avenue
and had seen a vista of Tanglewood Court, and smooth
terraces, and bright beds of flowers, with Lords and
Ladies walking up and down, taking the air, discussing
fruit trees, and Dutch gardening, and glass hives for
bees. Now, he saw nothing but the woods all brimming
with Spring flowers: a garden made by Nature.</p>
<p class='c012'>And then I thought I saw one Bluebell detach itself
from its fellows and come wafting to us with a fairy’s
message, but it was a bright blue butterfly who sailed,
rejoicing in the sun. Somehow the butterfly reminded
me of the Lady Perpetua, soft and smiling, and fluttering
in the sun: as if she had returned to her woods in that
guise to hover near the tree, the trysting-place, on
which the initials were cut.</p>
<p class='c012'>I said as much to the Stone Dog, but received no
answer.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Stone Dog,” I said, “England is a very wonderful
place: every park, every field, every little wood is
full of stories. I cannot pass a park gate without
thinking of the men and women who have been through
it. What a Garden of History the whole place is!
I’ll warrant a Roman has kissed a Saxon girl in this
very place, for there’s a camp not far off—perhaps you
have seen twinkling ghostly watch-fires gleaming in
the night. Young Hervey’s dead, but you never saw
him die; they fought in the garden on the smooth
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>grass, and the story goes that he slipped, and Bois
ran him through as he lay on the grass. What flowers
grow over his head now? And Perpetua is dead.
They say she ran out and saw her lover dead, and
bared her breast to her husband’s sword. The grass
was wet with her blood when you saw Lord Bois ride
madly down the drive, through the gates, and out into
the open country. The smile Sir Peter Lely painted is
carved by the hand of Death. She was only a girl,
after all. Who places flowers on her grave?”</p>
<p class='c012'>Meanwhile the sun shone on the Bluebells, and struck
odd leaves of the trees, picking them out with a fanciful
finger till they shone like green fires.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then the idea came to me that this wood held the
spirit of Lady Perpetua fast for ever. The Bluebells
were the satin sheen of her dress (blue like the Lely
portrait), the red-brown autumn leaves and the dead
Bracken were her hair; the Wind Flowers, like her
body linen; the Violets, her eyes; the Primroses,
her breath; the Cowslips, her golden ornaments; the
Daisy petals like her pure white skin. A gentle breeze
stirred all the flowers together, and—behold! there
she was, alive. The wood was yielding up her secret,
as woods and flowers will do to those who love them.</p>
<p class='c012'>So the Stone Dog and I had a bond of sympathy
between us, the bond of old memories, and the wood
united us with its store of romance and beauty: and
he who loves wild flowers and woods, as well as walled
gardens and trees clipped in images, may gather store
of pictures for his mind.</p>
<p class='c012'>So the afternoon passed in this pleasant manner, and
I took opportunity to speak once more to the Stone
Dog before the woodcutter’s children came home from
school to spoil our peace.</p>
<div id='o041' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_041.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>BLUEBELLS IN SURREY.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>I said, “There is no man so poor but he can afford
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>to take pleasure in Bluebells, and, even if he live in a
town, there are wild flowers for sale in the streets, and
a bunch of Spring to be bought for a penny. And
there is no man so rich that he can wall up the treasures
of heaven, or build his walls so high but a Rose will
peep over the edge. Poor and rich are free of their
thoughts, and there are thoughts and enough to spare,
in a hedgerow or a wood. Uncaged birds sing best,
and wild flowers yield the purest scents. You and I
are fellow dreamers, and this wood is our garden, and
these birds our orchestra, and this grass our carpet;
and even when I am underneath the brown earth I
love so well, you will sit here and listen for the sound
of carriage wheels, and wonder if you will catch a
glimpse of red hair and a satin dress through the long-silent
avenue. There are mountains, Stone Dog, that
still feel the pressure of the foot of Moses; and hills
under which Roman soldiers lie; and there are woods
growing where orchard gardens were; and gardens
planted where the wild boar once ravaged.”</p>
<p class='c012'>After I had said this came wild shouts, and the
laughter of children, and a great clatter as the four
children of the woodcutter came running from the
village school.</p>
<p class='c012'>As I left that place, and turned, before a bend of
the road shut out the sight of the wood, I saw the sea
of Bluebells, and the sky above, the Primroses and the
Wind Flowers and last year’s leaves all melt into one.
The figure they made was the figure of Lady Perpetua
standing there smiling. Then I heard the wheels of a
carriage on the road, and I could have sworn I saw the
Stone Dog turn his head.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VII<br /> <br />THE TAILOR’S SISTER’S TOMBSTONE</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>I was on the hill over against the village where my
friend the tailor lived, and was preparing to descend
into the valley to inquire the whereabouts of his cottage,
when one of those sharp summer storms came on, the
sky being darkened as if a hand had drawn a curtain
across it, and the entire village lit by a vivid, unnatural
light, like limelight in its intensity.</p>
<p class='c012'>Turning about, as the first great drops fell, to look
for shelter, I spied a rough shed by the wayside, shut
in on three sides with gorse, wattle and mud, and roofed
over with heather thatch. Into this I scuttled and found
a comfortable seat on a sack placed on a pile of hurdles.</p>
<p class='c012'>It was evidently a place used by a shepherd for a
store-house of the implements of his craft. At the
back of a shed was one of those houses on wheels shepherds
use in the lambing season; besides this were
hurdles, sacks, several rusty tins, and a very rusty oil-stove.
All very primitive, and possessed of a nice
earthy smell. It gave me a sudden desire to be a
shepherd.</p>
<p class='c012'>Looking down into the valley I saw men running for
shelter, hastily pulling their coats over their shoulders
as they ran. In a field on the far side of the valley
they were carting Wheat, and I saw two men quickly
unhitch the cart horses, and lead them away to some
place hidden from me by trees.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>The village was buried in orchards, and lay along the
bank of a quickly running river that caught a glint
of the weird light here and there between the trees like
a path of shining silver. A squat church tower stuck
up among the red roofs.</p>
<p class='c012'>For a moment the scene shone in the fierce light,
then the low growling thunder broke into a tremendous
crash, and the light was gone in an instant. Then the
rain blotted out everything.</p>
<p class='c012'>The hiss of the rain on the dry heather thatch over
my head was good enough company, and it was added
to, soon, by the entrance of seven swallows that flew
into my shelter and sat twittering on a beam just inside
the opening. Then came an inky darkness, broken
violently by a blare of lightning as if some hand had
rent the dark curtain across in a rage. A great torn
jagged edge of blue-white light streamed across the
valley, showing everything in wet, glistening detail.</p>
<p class='c012'>Only that morning I had been reading by the wayside
an account of a storm in the Memoirs of Benvenuto
Cellini. It came very pat for the day. It was at the
time when Cellini rode from Paris carrying two precious
vases on a mule of burden, lent him to go as far as
Lyons, by the Bishop of Pavia. When they were a
day’s journey from Lyons, it being almost ten o’clock
at night, such a terrific storm burst upon them that
Cellini thought it was the day of judgment. The hailstones
were the size of Lemons; and the event caused
him to sing psalms and wrap his clothes about his
head. All the trees were broken down, all the cattle
deprived of life, and a great many shepherds were
killed.</p>
<p class='c012'>I was still engaged in picturing this when the sky
above me grew lighter, the rain fell less heavily, and,
in a very short time, all that was left of the storm was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>a distant sound as of a giant murmuring, a dark blot
of rain cloud on the distant hills, and the ceaseless
patter of dripping trees. The sun shone out and showed
the village and landscape all fresh and shining. Then,
as I looked, against the dark bank of distant clouds,
a rainbow arched in glorious colours, one step of the
arch on the hills tailing into mist, and one in the corn
field below. The sight of the rainbow with its wonderful
beauty, and its great message of hope thrilled me,
as it always does. I do not care what the scientist
tells me of its formation: he has not added one atom
to my feeling, with all his knowledge. It remains for
me the sign of God’s compact with man.</p>
<p class='c013'>“And God said, This is the token of the covenant which
I make between me and you, and every living creature that
is with you, for perpetual generations.</p>
<p class='c013'>“I set my bow in a cloud, and it shall be for a token of a
covenant between me and the earth.</p>
<p class='c013'>“And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the
earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud.</p>
<p class='c013'>“And I will remember my covenant which is between
me and you, and every living creature of all flesh; and the
waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.</p>
<p class='c013'>“And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon
it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between
God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the
earth.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I learnt to love that when I was a child, and being
still, in many ways, the same child, I look upon a rainbow
and think of God remembering his covenant: and
it makes me very happy.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now as the storm was over, and I had no further
excuse for stopping in my shelter, I took my knapsack
again on to my shoulder and walked down, across two
fields of grass, round the high hedges of two orchards,
and came out into the road in the valley, about two
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>hundred yards distant from the village church. It
was about four of the afternoon.</p>
<p class='c012'>I was about to turn towards the village to ask my
best way to the tailor’s cottage, when who should turn
the bend of the road but the tailor himself with all the
air of looking for some one.</p>
<p class='c012'>I grasped him warmly by the hand, and he held
mine in a good grip like the good fellow he was, saying,
“I was looking about for you, sir, thinking you might
have forgotten my direction” (as indeed, I had), “and
knowing you would most likely go to the village to inquire,
I was on my way there.”</p>
<p class='c012'>As we turned to walk down the road away from the
church, the tailor informed me his sister was all agog
to see me, but very nervous that I might think theirs
too poor a place to put up with, and she had, at the
last moment, implored him to take me to the inn instead.</p>
<p class='c012'>The affection I had gained for the little man in my
few hours’ talk with him made me certain I should be
happy in his company, and I laughed at his fears.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Why, man,” said I, “I have walked a good hundred
miles to see you, do you think it likely I shall turn away
at the last minute?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“There,” cried the tailor, “I told her so. She’s a
small body, you’ll understand, sir, and gets worried at
times.”</p>
<p class='c012'>We turned a corner and I saw before me one of the
prettiest cottages I have ever seen. A low, sloping roof
of thatch, golden brown where it had been mended,
rich brown and green in the older part. The body
of the cottage was white, with a fine tree of Cluster
Roses, the Seven Sisters, I think it is called, growing
over the porch and on the walls. The garden was
one mass of bloom, a wonderful garden—as artists say,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>“juicy” with colour. Standard Roses, Sweet Williams,
Hollyhocks, patches of Violas, Red Hot Pokers, Japanese
Anemones, a hedge of Sweet Peas “all tip-toe for a
flight” as Keats has it, clumps of Dahlias just coming
out, with red pots on sticks to catch the earwigs; an
old Lavender hedge, grey-green. A rain butt painted
green; round a corner, three blue-coloured beehives;
and all about, such flowers—I could not mention half
of them. Bushes of Phlox, for instance; and great
brown-eyed Sunflowers cracked across with wealth of
seed; and tall spikes of Larkspur like the summer
skies: and Carnations couched in their grey grass or tied
to sticks. A worn brick pathway leading through it all.</p>
<p class='c012'>The tailor watched the effect on me anxiously.</p>
<p class='c012'>I stood with one hand on the gate and drank in the
beauty of it. Set, as the place was, in a bower of
orchards, it looked like a jewelled nest, a place out of a
fairy tale, everything complete. The diamond panes
of the windows with neat muslin curtains behind them,
with fine Geraniums in very red pots on the window-sill,
were like friendly eyes beaming pleasantly at the
passing world. To a tired traveller making his way
upon that road, such a sight would bring delight to
his eyes, and cause him, most certainly, to pause before
the glad garden. If he were a romantic man he would
take off his hat, as men do abroad to a wayside Calvary,
in honour of the peace that dwelt over all.</p>
<p class='c012'>Like a rich illuminated page the garden glowed
among the trees—like a jewel of many colours it shone
in its velvet nest.</p>
<p class='c012'>The tailor could restrain himself no longer. He said,
“As neat as anything you’ve seen, sir?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Perfect,” said I. “As much as a man could want.”</p>
<p class='c012'>He walked before me down the garden path and
called, “Rose,” through the open door.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>In another minute I was shaking hands with the
tailor’s sister.</p>
<p class='c012'>In appearance she was as spotlessly clean as her
muslin curtains. She was a tiny woman of about
forty-five, very quick in her movements, with a little
round red face and very bright blue eyes. She wore,
in my honour, a black silk dress, and a black silk apron
and a large cornelian brooch at her neck.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Pray step inside, sir,” she said throwing open the
door of the parlour.</p>
<p class='c012'>When I was seated at tea with these people I kept
wondering where they had learnt the refinement and
taste everywhere exhibited. For one thing the few
family possessions were good, and there was no tawdry
rubbish. A grandfather clock, its case shining with
polishing, ticked comfortably in one corner of the
room. An old-fashioned sofa filled the window space.
We sat upon Windsor chairs with our feet on a rag
carpet. Most of the household gods were over or upon
the mantelpiece, most prominent among which was a
really fine landscape, hung in the centre. I inquired
whose work this might be.</p>
<p class='c012'>One had only to look in the direction of any object
to get its history from the tailor.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I bought that, sir,” he said, when I was looking at
the picture, “of a man near Norwich. It cost me half
a crown.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Three shillings,” said the sister. Then to me,
“He takes a sixpence off, now and again, sir, because
he’s jealous of my bargains; aren’t you, Tom?”</p>
<p class='c012'>Tom smiled at her and winked at me. “She will
have her bit of fun,” he said.</p>
<p class='c012'>“But it’s a fine picture,” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Proud to have you say so,” he answered; “I like
it, and the man didn’t seem to care about it. He was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>going to the Colonies and parting with a lot of odds and
ends. I bought the brass candlesticks off him at the
same time—a shilling.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I could see why the little man liked the picture, for
the same reason I liked it myself. It was of the Norwich
School, a broad open landscape painted with care and
finish of detail, and with much of the charming falsity
of light common among certain pictures of that time.
On the left was a cottage whose garden gave on to the
road, a cottage almost buried under two great trees.
The road wound past, out of the shadows of the trees,
and vanished over a hill. The middle distance showed a
great expanse of country dotted with trees with the continuation
of the road running through the vale until
it was lost in a wood. A sky of banked up clouds hung
over all. Right across the middle of the picture was
a wonderfully painted gleam of sunlight, flicking trees,
meadows, and the road into bright colours; the rest
of the picture being subdued to give this effect. Up the
road, coming towards the cottage, was a small man in a
three-cornered hat, knee breeches, and long skirted
coat. This figure dated the picture a little earlier
than I had at first thought it.</p>
<p class='c012'>“That’s me,” said the tailor, pointing to the figure.
“That’s what Rose said as soon as I brought it home,
‘Why that’s you, Tom.’”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I did, sir, that’s just what I said. ‘Why Tom,
that’s you,’ I said.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“And so it is,” said the tailor.</p>
<p class='c012'>Half a crown! Few of us are rich enough in taste
to have bought it.</p>
<p class='c012'>After tea I begged leave to see the garden. “And,
Miss Rose,” I said, “to hear about the tombstone,
please.”</p>
<p class='c012'>She put her small fat hands to her face and laughed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>and laughed. “He’s been and told you that, sir?
Well, I never did!”</p>
<div id='o048' class='figcenter id005'>
<img src='images/opp_048.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A COTTAGE GARDEN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>We went out of the back door and into a second
flower garden rivalling the one in front for a display
of colour. There, sure enough, stood the tombstone,
grey and upright, planted in a bed of flowers. They
seemed to hurl themselves at the grim object, wave
upon wave of coloured joy washing the feet of the
emblem of Death.</p>
<p class='c012'>“There she is,” said the tailor’s sister proudly.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Please tell me about it,” said I, wondering at her
cheerfulness.</p>
<p class='c012'>“You see, sir,” she began, “before Tom and I came
into our fortune, and got rich——”</p>
<p class='c012'>Multi-millionaires, I thought, could you but hear
that! But they were rich—as rich as any one could
be. The flowers in the garden were worth a kingdom.</p>
<p class='c012'>“—We used to wonder what we’d do if we ever had
a bit of money. Of course, we never dreamed of anything
like this.” Her eyes wandered proudly over her
possessions.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Yes,” said the tailor, joining in. “Our best dreams
never came near this. I’d seen such places, but never
thought to live in one, much less own one.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Well, you see, sir,” said his sister taking up the
thread of her story, “there was one thing I’d always
set my mind on—a nice place to lie in when I was dead.
I had a horror of cemeteries, great ugly places, as you
might say, with the tombstones sticking up like almonds
in a tipsy cake pudding, and a lot of dirty children
playing about. I lived for ten years in London, in a
room that overlooked one, a most dingy place I called
it. I couldn’t bear to think I’d be popped in with a
crowd, anyhow. Now, a churchyard in the country—that’s
quite different.”</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>“I’d a great fancy for a spot I knew in Kent,” said
the tailor. “Dark Yew trees all round one side, and
Daisies over everything, and a seat near by for people
to rest on, coming early to church.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Go on, Tom,” said his sister lovingly. “Ar’n’t you
satisfied with what you’ve got?”</p>
<p class='c012'>He turned to me after putting his arm through his
sister’s. “We’ve got our piece of ground,” he said
cheerfully. “I’m going to be planted next to her,
on the left of the church door—well, it’s as good a place
as you’d find anywhere, and people coming out of
church will notice us easily. I’d like to be thought of,
after I’m gone.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Death held no terrors for these people, it seemed,
they talked so happily of it, made such delightful plans
to welcome it; robbed it of all its gloom and horror,
its false trappings, its dingy grandeur.</p>
<p class='c012'>There was a flaunting Red Admiral sunning its wings
on the tombstone.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I never thought,” said the sister, “I should find
just what I wanted by accident. Isn’t it lovely?”</p>
<p class='c012'>It certainly had a beauty of its own. It was a copy
of an early eighteenth century tombstone, the top in
three arches, the centre arch large, and round, ending
in carved scroll work. In the centre of the arch a
cherub was carved, very fat and smiling, with wings
on either side of his head. Then, in good deep-cut
lettering, were the words:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>SACRED TO THE MEMORY</div>
<div>OF</div>
<div>ROSE BRANDLE</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Both these curious people looked at me as I read
the lettering. Arm in arm they looked nice, cheerful,
loving friends, a good deal like one another in the face,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>very gay and homely, and with a certain sparkling
brightness, like the flowers they loved. To see them
standing there proudly, smiling at the grey tombstone,
smiling at me, under the sun, in the garden so full of
life and of growing healthy things, gave me a sensation
that Death was present in friendly guise, a constant
welcome companion to my new friends, and a pleasant
image even to myself.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Second-hand,” said the tailor’s sister, “all except
the name, and he put that in for me at a penny the
letter: that came to elevenpence, so I gave him a
shilling to make an even sum.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“A guinea, as it stands,” said the tailor.</p>
<p class='c012'>“You like it, sir?” asked his sister anxiously.</p>
<p class='c012'>“On the contrary,” said I, “I admire it enormously.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“As soon as I saw it,” she said, “I fell in love with
it. It was standing at the back of the yard among a
heap of stones. The sun was shining on it, and I said
to myself, ‘If that’s cheap, it’s as good as mine.’ The
man had cut it out years ago as an advertisement to
put in the front of the yard, and it had a bit of paper
pasted on it with his terms and what not—Funerals
in the best style. Distance no object—and that sort
of thing. I asked the price of it and he told me ‘One
pound.’ ‘Cheap,’ I said, and he told me how ’twas
so, since people nowadays like broken urns and pillars
or something plainer, and had given up cherubs, and
death-heads and suchlike. So I put down the money,
and he popped it on a waggon that was coming back
this way with a small load of Hay, and Tom put it up
for me in the garden. Now I can die happy, sir.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I asked her if she had no feelings about Death, and
if the idea of leaving her garden and her cottage was
not strange to her.</p>
<p class='c012'>She replied, in the simplest way possible, being a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>cheerful religious woman without a particle of sham
in her nature, that when God called her she was ready
and glad to go, and as for the garden she would only
go to another one—far more beautiful.</p>
<p class='c012'>Her faith, I found afterwards, was of a sweet simple
kind, and had been with her as a child, and remained
with her as a woman, untouched by the least doubt.
She heard Mass every morning of her life in the little
church half a mile away, and spoke in loving and familiar
tones of her favourite saints as being friends of hers,
though in a higher station of life. Included in her
ideas of heaven was a very distinct belief that there
would be many beautiful flowers and birds, and the
pleasure with which she looked forward to seeing them—in
a humble way, as if she might be one of a crowd
in a Public Garden—gave her a quiet dignity and
charm, the equal of which I have seldom met. Her
brother, who was always marvelling at her, had, also,
some of her dignity, but a wider, freer view of things,
and the natural gaiety of a bird.</p>
<p class='c012'>The next morning, as soon as I woke in the fresh
clean bedroom they had made ready for me, I sprang
from my bed and went to look out of the window.
The dew was sparkling on the flowers, and their scent
came up sweet and strong; a tubful of Mignonette,
at which the bees were busy, was especially fragrant.
As I looked, the tailor’s sister came into the garden,
in a neat lavender-coloured print dress; she carried
a missal in one hand, and a rosary swung in the other.
She stood opposite to her tombstone for a minute, her
lips moving softly, and then, after turning her pleasant
face towards the wealth of flowers about her, she bowed
deeply, as if saluting the morning. A little time later
I heard the gate of the front garden swing and shut, and
I knew she had gone to hear Mass.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>The garden was left alone, busy in its quiet way;
growing, dying, perpetuating its kind. The bees were
industriously singing as they worked; lordly butterflies
danced rigadoons and ravanes over the flowers;
a thrush, after a long hearty tug at a fat worm, swallowed
it, and then, perching on the tombstone, poured out its
joy in full clear notes. And Death was cheated of his
sting.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VIII<br /> <br />THE COTTAGE GARDEN</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>For the same reason that your town man keeps a pot
of Geraniums on his window-sill, and a caged bird in
his house, your countryman plants bright-coloured
flowers by his door, and regales his children with news
of the first cuckoo. They pull as much of Heaven down
as will accommodate itself to their plot of earth.</p>
<p class='c012'>Any man standing in the centre of however small a
space of his personal ownership—a piece of drugget
in a garret, a patch of garden—makes it the hub of the
universe round which the stars spin, on which his world
revolves. Within a hand-stretch of him lie all he is,
his intimate possessions, his scraps of comfort scratched
out of the hard earth: books, pictures, photographs
showing the faces of his small world of friends and his
tiny travels—how little difference there is between a
walk through Piccadilly and a journey across Asia:
your great traveller has little more to say than the
man who has found Heaven in a penny bunch of Violets,
or heard the stars whisper over St. James’s Park—within
his reach are the things he has paid the price of
life for, and they are the cloak with which he covers his
nakedness of soul against the all-seeing eye he calls his
Destiny.</p>
<p class='c012'>With all this, commenced perhaps in cowardice—for
the earth’s brown crust is too like a grave, the garret
floor too like a shell of wood—your man, town or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>country, grown to know love of little things, nurses a
seedling as if it were his conscience, patches his drugget
as if it were a verse he’d like to polish. Out of the
vast dreary waste of faces who pass by unheeding,
and the unseeing world that does not care whether he
lives or dies, he makes his small hoard of treasures, as a
child hides marbles, thinking them precious stones—as,
indeed, they are to those who have eyes to see—and,
be they books, or pictures, pots of plants, or curious
conceits in china, they all answer for flowers, for the
bright-coloured spots of comfort in a life of doubt.</p>
<p class='c012'>No man thinks this out carefully, and sets about to plan
his garden in this spirit: he feels a need, and meets it as
he can. In this manner we are all cottage gardeners.</p>
<p class='c012'>In days gone by—days of serfdom, oppression, battle,
slavery, poverty—the countryman passed his day waiting
for the next blow, living between pestilences, and praying
in the dark for small sparks of comfort. The
monks kept the land sweet by growing herbs in sheltered
places; the countryman looked dully at Periwinkles
and Roses and Columbines, thought them pretty, and
passed by. Even the meanest flower, Shepherd’s-eye
or Celandine, was too high for him to reach. (The
poet who keeps Jove’s Thunder on his mantelpiece
would understand that.) Roses were common enough
even in the dark ages; the English hedgerow threw out
its fingers of Wild Rose and scented the air—but where
was the man with a nose for fragrance when a mailed
hand was on his shoulder. Those Roses on the Field
of Tewkesbury—think of them stained with blood and
flowering over rotting corpses.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“I sometimes think that never blows so red</div>
<div class='line in1'>The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;</div>
<div class='line in1'>That every Hyacinth the Garden wears</div>
<div class='line in1'>Dropt in its lap from some once lovely Head.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in1'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>And this delightful Herb whose tender Green</div>
<div class='line in1'>Fledges the River’s Lip on which we lean.</div>
<div class='line in1'>Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows</div>
<div class='line in1'>From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Little did the dull ploughman think of Roses in the
hedge, or Violets in the bank, he’d little care except
for a dish of Pulse. Yet, all the time, curious men were
studying botany, dredging the earth for secrets, as the
astronomer swept the sky. The Arviells, Gilbert and
Hernicus, were, one in Europe, the other in Asia, collecting
good plants and herbs to replenish the Jardins de
Santé the monks kept—that in the thirteenth century,
too, with war clouds everywhere, and steel-clad knights
wooing maidens in castles by the secondhand means of
luting troubadours.</p>
<p class='c012'>The Arts of Rome were dead, buried, and cut up by
the plough. (How many ploughmen, such as Chaucer
knew, turned long brown furrows over Roman vineyards,
and black crows, following, pecked at bright
coins, brought by the plough to light.)</p>
<p class='c012'>All at once, it must have seemed, the culture of flowers,
was in the air: Carnations became the rage; then
men spent heaven knows what on a Tulip bulb; built
orangeries; sent Emissaries abroad to cull flowers in
the East. The great men’s gardeners, great men themselves,
kept flowers in the plot of ground about their
cottages; gave out a seed or so here and there; talked
garden gossip at the village ale-house. (Tradescant
steals Apricots from Morocco into England. A Carew
imports Oranges. The Cherry orchards at Sittingbourne
are planted by one of Henry the Eighth’s gardeners.
Peiresc brings all manner of flowers to bloom under
our grey skies: great numbers of Jessamines, the clay-coloured
Jessamine from China; the crimson American
kind; the Violet-coloured Persian.)</p>
<div id='o057' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_057.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A SURREY COTTAGE.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>The grass piece by the cottage door begins to find
itself cut into beds; uncared for flowers, wild Gilly-flowers,
Thyme, Violets and the like, give colour to the
cottage garden that has only just become a garden.
With that comes competition: one man outdoes another,
begs plants and seeds of all his friends; buds a Rose on
to a Briar standard, and boasts the scent of his new
Clove Pinks, And so it grew that times were not so
strenuous: Queen Victoria comes to the throne, and
with prosperity come the pretty frillings of life, and
cottage gardens ape their masters’ Rose walks, and
collections of this and that. To-day Africa and Asia
nod together in a sunny cottage border, and Lettuces
from the Island of Cos show their green faces next to
Sir Walter Raleigh’s great gift to the poor man, the
Potato. Poplars from Lombardy grow beside the
garden gate; the Currant bush from Zante drips its
jewel-like fruit tassels under a Cherry tree given to us,
indirectly, by Lucullus, lost by us in our slumbering
Saxon times, and here again, with Henry the Eighth’s
gardener, from Flanders. In some quite humble
gardens the Cretan Quince and Persian Peach grow;
so that history, poetry, and romance peer over
Giles’s rustic hedge; and the wind blows scents of all
the world through the small latticed window.</p>
<p class='c012'>Ploughman Giles, sitting by his cottage door, smoking
an American weed in his pipe while his wife shells the
Peas of ancient Rome into a basin, does not realise
that his little garden, gay with Indian Pinks and African
Geraniums, and all its small crowd of joyous-coloured
flowers, is an open book of the history of his native
land spread at his feet. Here’s the conquest of America,
and the discovery of the Cape, and all the gold of Greece
for his bees to play with. Here’s his child making a
chain of Chaucer’s Daisies; and there’s a Chinese
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>mandarin nodding at him from the Chrysanthemums;
and there’s a ghost in his cabbage patch of Sir Anthony
Ashley of Wimbourne St. Giles in Dorsetshire.</p>
<p class='c012'>Ploughman Giles is a fortunate man, and we, too,
bless his enterprise and his love of striking colours and
good perfumes when we lean over the gate of his cottage
garden to give him good-day.</p>
<p class='c012'>I showed him once a photograph of a picture by
Holbein—the Merchant of the Steel Yard—and pointed
out the vase of flowers on the table and the very same
flowers growing side by side in his garden, Carnations,
the old single kind, and single Gilly-flower. He looked
at the picture with his glasses cocked at the proper
angle on his nose—he’s an oldish man and short-sighted—and
said in his husky voice, “Well, zur, I be surprised
to zee un.” And he called out his wife to look—which
didn’t please her much as she was cooking—but,
when she saw the flowers, “In that there queer gentleman’s
room, and as true as life, so they do be,” she became
enthusiastic, wiped her hands many times on her
apron, and looked from the picture to the actual flowers
growing in her garden with a kind of awe and wonder.
It was of far more interest to them to know that they
were hand in glove with the history of their own country
than it would have been to learn that chemists made a
wonderful drug called digitalis out of the Foxgloves
by the fence. I gave them the photograph and it
hangs in a proud position next to a stuffed and bloated
perch in a glass-case; and, what is more, they have an
added sense of dignity from the dim, far away time the
picture represents to them.</p>
<p class='c012'>“He might a plucked they flowers in this very garden,”
she says; and indeed, he might if he had happened that
way. But the older flowers, though they don’t realise
it, are the people themselves. Ploughman Giles and his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>wife, have been on the very spot far, far longer than the
Pinks and Gilly-flowers, blooming into ripe age, rearing
countless families back and back and back, until one
can almost see a Giles sacrificing to Thor and Odin at
the stone on the hill behind the cottage. The Norman
Church throws its shadow over the graves of countless
Gileses, and over the graves, pleasant-eyed English
Daisies shine on the grass.</p>
<p class='c012'>After all, when we see a cottage standing in its
glowing garden, with a neat hedge cutting it off from
its fellows; with children playing eternal games with
dolls (Mr. Mould’s children following the ledger to its
long home in the safe—shall I ever forget that?), we
see the whole world, cares, joys, birth, death and
marriage; the wealth of nations scattered carelessly
in flowers, spoils from every continent, surrounded
by a hedge, its own birds to sing, its hundred forms of
life, feeding, breeding, dying round the cottage door;
and, at night, its little patch of stars overhead.</p>
<p class='c012'>It was a fanciful child, perhaps, but children are full
of quaint ideas, who caught the moon in a bright tin
spoon, and put it in a bottle, and drew the cork at night
to let the moon out to sail in the sky. The child found
the tin spoon, dropped by a passing tinware pedlar,
in the road, waited till night came, with his head full
of a fairy story he had heard, and when it was dark,
except for the moon, he stepped into the garden, held
the bowl of the spoon to catch the moon’s reflection,
and when she showed her yellow face distorted in the
bright spoon, he poured the reflection, very solemnly,
into a bottle and corked it fast and tight. Then,
with a whispered fairy spell, some nurse’s gibberish,
he took the precious bottle and hid it in a cupboard
along with other mysterious tokens. That’s a symbol
of all our lives, bottling up moons and letting them out
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>at nights. Isn’t a garden just such a dream-treat to
some of us? There are golden Marigolds for the sun
we live by, and silver Daisies for the stars, and blue
Forget-me-nots for summer skies. Heaven at our
feet, and angels singing from birds’ throats among the
trees.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sometimes we see one cottage garden, next to a
Paradise of colour, flaunting Geraniums, and all the
summer garland, and in it a poor tree or so, a few ill-kept
weedy flowers, overgrown Stocks, a patch of
drunken-looking Poppies, a grass-grown waste of choked
Pinks: the whole place with a sullen air. What is the
matter with the people living there? A decent word
will beg a plant or two, seeds and cuttings can be had
for the asking. Is it a poor or a proud spirit who refuses
to join the other displays of colour? Knock at
the door, and your answer comes quick-footed; it
is the poor spirit answers you. Of course, there are
men who can coax blood out of a stone, and find big
strawberries in the bottom of the basket; and others
who cannot grow anything, try as they may. It is
common enough to hear this or that will not grow for
so-and-so, or that man makes such a plant flourish
where mine all die. There’s something between man
and his flowers, some sympathy, that makes a Rose
bloom its best for one, and Carnations wither under his
touch, or Asters show their magic purples for one, and
give a weak display for another. No one knows what
speaks in the man to the Roses that bloom for him, or
what distaste Carnations feel for all his ministrations,
but the fact remains—any gardener will tell you that.
So with your man of greenhouses, so with your humble
cottage gardener, and, looking along a village street, the
first glance will show you not who loves the flowers
but whom flowers love.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>This, of course, is not the reason of the weedy garden
of the poor spirit, the reason for that is obvious: the
poor spirit never rejoices, and to grow and care for
flowers is a great way of rejoicing. There’s many a
man sows poems in the spring who never wrote a line
of verse: his flowers are his contribution to the world’s
voice; united in expressions of joy, the writer, the
painter, the singer, the flower-grower are all part of one
great poem.</p>
<p class='c012'>The average person who passes a cottage garden is
more moved by the senses than the imagination; he
or she drinks deep draughts of perfume, takes long comfort
to the eyes from the fragrant and coloured rood of
land. They do not cast this way and that for curious
imaginings; it might add to their pleasure if they did
so. There are men who find the whole of Heaven in a
grain of mustard seed; and there are those who, in all
the pomp and circumstance of a hedge of Roses, find
but a passing pleasure to the eye.</p>
<p class='c012'>We, who take our pleasure in the Garden of England,
who feast our eyes on such rich schemes of colours she
affords, have reason to be more than grateful to those
who encourage the cottage gardener in his work. It
is from the vicarage, rectory, or parsonage gardens that
most encouragement springs; it is the country clergyman
and his wife who, in a large measure, are responsible
for the good cottage gardening we see nearly everywhere.
These, and the numberless societies, combine
to keep up the interest in gardening and bee-keeping,
to which we owe one of our chiefest English pleasures.
The good garden is the purple and fine linen of the poor
man’s life; poets, philosophers, and kings have praised
and sung the simple flowers that he grows. Wordsworth
for instance, sings of a flower one finds in nearly every
cottage garden:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>You call it “Love-lies-Bleeding”—so you may,</div>
<div class='line'>Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops</div>
<div class='line'>As we have seen it here from day to day,</div>
<div class='line'>From month to month, life passing not away:</div>
<div class='line'>A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,</div>
<div class='line'>(Sentient by Grecian sculpture’s marvellous power)</div>
<div class='line'>Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent</div>
<div class='line'>Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,</div>
<div class='line'>The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!</div>
<div class='line'>(’Tis Fancy guides me, willing to be led,</div>
<div class='line'>Though by a slender thread,)</div>
<div class='line'>So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew</div>
<div class='line'>Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air</div>
<div class='line'>The gentlest breath of resignation drew;</div>
<div class='line'>While Venus in a passion of despair</div>
<div class='line'>Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair</div>
<div class='line'>Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.</div>
<div class='line'>She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;</div>
<div class='line'>But pangs more lasting far that Lover knew</div>
<div class='line'>Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower</div>
<div class='line'>Did press this semblance of unpitied smart</div>
<div class='line'>Into the service of his constant heart,</div>
<div class='line'>His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share</div>
<div class='line'>With thine, and gave the mournful name</div>
<div class='line in2'>Which thou wilt ever bear.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Then again, Mrs. Browning, who loved Nature and
England, and spoke her love in such delicate fancies,
writes of flowers in “Our Gardened England,” in a poem
called,</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>A FLOWER IN A LETTER.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Red Roses, used to praises long,</div>
<div class='line'>Contented with the poet’s song,</div>
<div class='line in2'>The nightingale’s being over;</div>
<div class='line'>And Lilies white, prepared to touch</div>
<div class='line'>The whitest thought, nor soil it much,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Of dreamer turned to lover.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>Deep Violets you liken to</div>
<div class='line'>The kindest eyes that look on you,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Without a thought disloyal!</div>
<div class='line'>And Cactuses a queen might don</div>
<div class='line'>If weary of her golden crown,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And still appear as royal!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Pansies for ladies all! I wis</div>
<div class='line'>That none who wear such brooches miss</div>
<div class='line in2'>A jewel in the mirror:</div>
<div class='line'>And Tulips, children love to stretch</div>
<div class='line'>Their fingers down, to feel in each</div>
<div class='line in2'>Its beauty’s secret nearer.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Love’s language may be talked with these!</div>
<div class='line'>To work out choicest sentences,</div>
<div class='line in2'>No blossoms can be neater—</div>
<div class='line'>And, such being used in Eastern bowers,</div>
<div class='line'>Young maids may wonder if the flowers</div>
<div class='line in2'>Or meanings be the sweeter.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>
<h2 class='c006'>IX<br /> <br />A FEAST OF WILD STRAWBERRIES</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>There’s many a child has crowned her head with
Buttercups—no bad substitute for gold—mirrored her
face in a pool, and dreamed she was a Queen. There’s
many a boy has lain for hours in the Wild Thyme on a
cliff top and sent dream-fleets to Spain. The touch of
imagination is all that is required to make the world
seem real, and not until that wand is used is the world
real. Only those moments when we hear the stars,
peer in through Heaven’s gates, or rub shoulders with
a poet’s vision, are real and substantial; the rest is
only dreamland, vague, unsatisfactory. Huddled rows
of dingy houses, smoke, grime, roar of traffic, scramble
for the pence that make the difference, these things are
not abiding thoughts—“Here there is no abiding city”—but
those great moments when we grow as the flowers
grow, sing as the birds sing, and feel at ease with the
furthest stars, those are the moments we live in and
remember. Our great garden may hold our thoughts
if we wish. When we own England with our eyes, when
all the fields and woods, the mountain streams, the
pools and rills, rivers and ponds, are ours; when
we are on our own ground with Ling and Broom,
Heather, Heath and Furze for our carpet; when
Harebells ring our matin’s bell and Speedwell close
the day for us; when the Water-lily is our cup,
broad leaves of Dock our platter, and King-cups
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>our array—how vast!—of gold plate, then are we
kings indeed.</p>
<div id='o064' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_064.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>PATCHES OF HEATHER.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>I’ll give you joy of all your hot-house fruit, if you’ll
leave me to my Wild Strawberries. I’ll wish you pleasure
of Signor What’s-his-name, the violin player, if you’ll
but listen to my choir of thrushes. What do you care
to eat? Here’s nothing over substantial, I’ll admit;
but there’s good wine in the brook, and food for a day
in the fields and hedges. Nuts, Blackberries, Wortleberries,
Wild Raspberries, Mushrooms, Crabs and Sloes,
and Samphire for preserving; Elderberries to make
into a cordial; and Wild Strawberries, that’s my
chiefest dish at this season—food for princesses.</p>
<p class='c012'>Come to the cliffs with your leaf of Wild Strawberries,
and I can show you blue Flax, and Sea Pinks,
yellow Sea-Cabbage, and Sea Convolvulus, and Golden
Samphire; you shall have Sandwort, and Viper’s
Bugloss, and Ploughman’s Spikenard, and Horned
Poppies, and Thyme, in plenty. We will choose a
fanciful flower for the table, the yellow Elecampane
that gave a cosmetic to Helen of Troy. And the mention
of her who set Olympus and Earth in a blaze of
discord makes me remember how Hermes, of the golden
wand, gave to Odysseus the plant he had plucked from
the ground, black at the root, and with a flower like to
milk—“Moly the Gods call it, but it is hard for mortal
men to dig; howbeit with the Gods all things are
possible.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Any manner of imaginings may come to those who
make a feast of Wild Strawberries. We may follow
our Classic idea and discuss the Hydromel, or cider of
the Greeks; the syrup of squills they drank to aid their
digestion, or the absinthe they took to promote appetite.
We might even try to make one of their sweet wines of
Rose leaves and honey, such a thing would go well
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>with our Wild Strawberries. These things might all
come out of our country garden and give us a ghostly
Greek flavour for our pains. There were Wild Strawberries,
I think, on Mount Ida where Paris was shepherd,
whence they fetched him when Discord threw the
Golden Apple.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is almost impossible to reach out a hand and pick a
flower without plucking a legend with it.</p>
<p class='c012'>I had taken, I thought, England for my garden, and
Wild Strawberries for my dish, but I find that I have
taken the world for my flower patch, and am sitting to
eat with ancient Greeks. Let me but pick the Pansy by
my hand and I find that Spenser plucked its fellow
years ago:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Strew me the ground with Daffe-down-dillies,</div>
<div class='line in1'>And Cowslips, and King-cups, and loved Lilies,</div>
<div class='line in3'>The pretty Paunce (that is my wild Pansy)</div>
<div class='line in3'>The Chevisaunce</div>
<div class='line in1'>Shall watch with the fayre Fleur de Luce.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>And you may call it Phœbus’-paramour, or Herb-Trinity,
or Three Faces-under-a-Hood.</p>
<p class='c012'>To our forefathers the fields, lanes, and gardens were
a newspaper far more valuable than the modern sheet
in which we read news of no importance day by day.
To them the blossoming of the Sloe meant the time for
sowing barley; the bursting of Alder buds that eels
had left their winter holes and might be caught. The
Wood Sorrel and the cuckoo came together; when Wild
Wallflower is out bees are on the wing, and linnets have
learnt their spring songs. Water Plantain is supposed
to cure a mad dog, and is a remedy against the poison
of a rattlesnake; ointment of Cowslips removes sunburn
and freckles; the Self-heal is good against cuts,
and so is called also, Carpenter’s Herb, Hook-heal, and
Sicklewort. Yellow Water-lilies will drive cockroaches
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>and crickets from a house. Most charming intelligence
of all deals with the Wild Canterbury Bell, in which the
little wild bees go to sleep, loving their silky comfort.
These are but a few paragraphs from our news-sheet,
but they serve to show how pleasant a paper it is to
know—and it costs nothing but a pair of loving and
careful eyes.</p>
<p class='c012'>If we choose to be more fanciful—and who is not, in
a wild garden with a dish of Wild Strawberries?—we
shall find ourselves filling Acorn cups with dew to drink
to the fairies, and wondering how the thigh of a honey-bee
might taste. Herrick is the poet for such flights
of thought. His songs—“To Daisies, not to shut so
soon.” “To Primroses filled with Morning Dew,”
and, for this instance, to</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>THE BAG OF THE BEE</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>About the sweet bag of a bee</div>
<div class='line in2'>Two Cupids fell at odds;</div>
<div class='line'>And whose the pretty prize should be</div>
<div class='line in2'>They vowed to ask the Gods.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Which Venus hearing, thither came</div>
<div class='line in2'>And for their boldness stripped them;</div>
<div class='line'>And taking thence from each his flame</div>
<div class='line in2'>With rods of Myrtle whipped them.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Which done, to still their wanton cries,</div>
<div class='line in2'>When quiet grown she’s seen them,</div>
<div class='line'>She kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And gave the bag between them.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>We can do no better than give thanks for all our
garden, our house, and our well-being in the words of
the same poet. For we need to thank, somehow,
for all the joys Nature gives us. Though, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>this poem, he names no flowers, yet his poems are
full of them:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“—That I, poor I,</div>
<div class='line in3'>May think, thereby,</div>
<div class='line in1'>I live and die</div>
<div class='line in3'>’Mongst Roses.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Every man who is a gardener at heart, whether he be
in love with the flowers of the open fields, the garden
of the highways and the woods, or with his protected
patch of ground, will care to know this song of Herrick’s
if he has not already found it for himself:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Lord, thou hast given me a cell,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Wherein to dwell;</div>
<div class='line'>A little house, whose humble roof</div>
<div class='line in2'>Is waterproof;</div>
<div class='line'>Under the spars of which I lie</div>
<div class='line in2'>Both soft and dry;</div>
<div class='line'>Where thou, my chamber for to ward,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Hast set a guard</div>
<div class='line'>Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep</div>
<div class='line in2'>Me, while I sleep.</div>
<div class='line'>Low is my porch, as is my fate;</div>
<div class='line in2'>Both void of state;</div>
<div class='line'>And yet the threshold of my door</div>
<div class='line in2'>Is worn by th’ poor,</div>
<div class='line'>Who thither come, and freely get</div>
<div class='line in2'>Good words or meat.</div>
<div class='line'>Like as my parlour, so my hall</div>
<div class='line in2'>And kitchen’s small;</div>
<div class='line'>A little buttery, and therein</div>
<div class='line in2'>A little bin,</div>
<div class='line'>Which keeps my little loaf of bread</div>
<div class='line in2'>Unchipt, unflead;</div>
<div class='line'>Some brittle sticks of Thorn or Briar</div>
<div class='line in2'>Make me a fire</div>
<div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>Close by whose living coal I sit,</div>
<div class='line in2'>And glow like it.</div>
<div class='line'>Lord, I confess too, when I dine,</div>
<div class='line in2'>The Pulse is thine.</div>
<div class='line'>And all those other bits that be</div>
<div class='line in2'>There placed by Thee;</div>
<div class='line'>The Worts, the Purslain, and the mess</div>
<div class='line in2'>Of Watercress,</div>
<div class='line'>Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;</div>
<div class='line in2'>And my content</div>
<div class='line'>Makes those, and my beloved Beet,</div>
<div class='line in2'>To be more sweet.</div>
<div class='line'>’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth,</div>
<div class='line in2'>With guiltless mirth,</div>
<div class='line'>And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Spiced to the brink.</div>
<div class='line'>Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand</div>
<div class='line in2'>That soils my land,</div>
<div class='line'>And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,</div>
<div class='line in2'>Twice ten for one;</div>
<div class='line'>Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay</div>
<div class='line in2'>Her egg each day;</div>
<div class='line'>Besides, my healthful ewes to bear</div>
<div class='line in2'>Me twins each year;</div>
<div class='line'>The while the conduits of my kine</div>
<div class='line in2'>Run cream, for wine;</div>
<div class='line'>All these, and better, thou dost send</div>
<div class='line in2'>Me, to this end—</div>
<div class='line'>That I should render, for my part,</div>
<div class='line in2'>A thankful heart;</div>
<div class='line'>Which, fired with incense, I resign,</div>
<div class='line in2'>As wholly thine;</div>
<div class='line'>—But the acceptance, that must be,</div>
<div class='line in2'>My Christ, by Thee.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>
<h2 class='c006'>X<br /> <br />THE PRAISES OF A COUNTRY LIFE</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>TRANSLATED FROM HORACE</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='small'>BY CHRISTOPHER SMART</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Happy the man, who, remote from business, after the
manner of the ancient race of mortals, cultivates his
paternal lands with his own oxen, disengaged from every
kind of usury; his is neither alarmed with the horrible
trumpet, as a soldier, nor dreads he the angry sea;
he shuns both the bar, and the proud portals of men in
power.</p>
<p class='c012'>Wherefore, he either weds the lofty Poplars to the
mature branches of the Vine; or lopping off the useless
boughs with his pruning-knife, he engrafts more fruitful
ones; or takes a prospect of the herds of his lowing
cattle, wandering about in a lonely vale; or stores his
honey, pressed from the combs, in clean vessels; or
shears his tender sheep.</p>
<p class='c012'>Or, when Autumn has lifted up in the field his head
adorned with mellow fruits, how glad is he while he
gathers Pears grafted by himself, and the Grape that
vies with the purple, with which he may recompense
thee, O Priapus, and thee, father Sylvanus, the guardian,
of his boundaries!</p>
<p class='c012'>Sometimes he delights to lie under an aged Holm,
sometimes on the matted grass: meanwhile the waters
glide down from steep clefts; the birds warble in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>woods; and the fountains murmur with their purling
streams, which invites gentle slumbers.</p>
<p class='c012'>But when the wintry season of the tempestuous air
prepares rains and snows, he either drives the fierce
boars, with dogs on every side, into the intercepting
toils; or spreads his thin nets with the smooth pole, as
a snare for the voracious thrushes; or catches in his
gin the timorous hare, or that stranger, the crane,
pleasing rewards for his labour.</p>
<p class='c012'>Amongst such joys as these, who does not forget
those mischievous anxieties, which are the property
of love? But if a chaste wife, assisting on her part
in the management of the house and beloved children,
(such as is the Sabine, or the sunburnt spouse of the
industrious Apulian) piles up the sacred hearth with
old wood, just at the approach of her weary husband,
and shutting up the fruitful cattle in the woven hurdles
milks dry their distended udders; and drawing this
year’s wine out of a well-seasoned cask, prepares the
unbought collation; not the Lucrine oysters could
delight me more, nor the turbot, nor the scar, should
the tempestuous Winter drive any from the Eastern
floods to this sea: not the turkey, nor the Asiatic wild
fowl, can come into my stomach more agreeable than
the Olive, gathered from the richest branches of the
trees, or the Sorrel that loves the meadows, or Mallows
salubrious for a sickly body, or a lamb slain at the feast
of the god Terminus, or a kid just rescued from a wolf.</p>
<p class='c012'>Amidst these dainties, how it pleases one to see the
well-fed sheep hastening home? To see the weary oxen,
with drooping neck, dragging the inverted ploughshare!
and numerous slaves, the test of a rich family
ranged about the smiling household gods!</p>
<div id='o073' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_073.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A PERGOLA IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c006'>PART II<br /> <br />GARDENS AND HISTORY</h2>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>
<h2 class='c006'>I<br /> <br />THE ROMAN GARDEN IN ENGLAND</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>It would appear, judging from the specimens one sees,
that the building of garden apartments, or summer-houses,
is a lost art. But then leisure, as an art, has
also been lost; and no man unless he understand leisure
can possibly build an apartment to be entirely devoted
to it.</p>
<p class='c012'>Imagine the man of the day who could write of his
summer-house as the younger Pliny wrote: “At the
end of the terrace, adjoining to the gallery, is a little
garden-apartment, which I own is my delight. In
truth it is my mistress: I built it.” The younger
Pliny, of to-day, is scouring the countryside in a motorcar,
his eyes half-blinded by dust, his nose offended
by the stink of petrol; his thoughts, like his toys,
purely mechanical.</p>
<p class='c012'>There are still a few quiet people, and some scholars,
whom the Socialist in his eager desire to benefit mankind
at reckless speed, and at ruthless expense of
humanity, would like to blot out, who can enjoy their
gardens with that curious remoteness which is the
privilege of the person of leisure.</p>
<p class='c012'>The art of leisure lies, to me, in the power of absorbing
without effort the spirit of one’s surroundings; to
look, without speculation, at the sky and the sea; to
become part of a green plain; to rejoice, with a tranquil
mind, in the feast of colour in a bed of flowers. To
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>this end is the good gardener born. The man, who, from
a sudden love, stops in his walk to look at a field of
Buttercups has no idea of the spiritual advancement he
has made.</p>
<p class='c012'>All this ambles away from the main topic, but so
closely does the peace of gardens cling, that thoughts
fly over the hedges like bees on the wing and bring
back honey from wider pastures and dreams from
larger tracts than those the garden itself covers. A
man might write a romance of Spain from looking at an
Orange.</p>
<p class='c012'>The Romans, who left an indelible mark on England
in their roadways and by their laws, built in this country
many villas whose pavements and foundations remain
to show us what manner of habitations they were.
Besides this we have ample records of the shapes and
purposes of these villas, with long accounts of baths,
furniture and the like, such as enable us to picture very
completely the life of a Roman gentleman exiled to these
shores.</p>
<p class='c012'>Houses, parks, and fields now cover all traces of any
gardens there were attached to these Roman villas.
Many a man lives over the spot where the hedges and
alleys, the flower beds and walks, once delighted those
gentlemen who sat drinking Falernian wine poured from
old amphoræ dated by the year of the consul. Where
sheep now browse gentlemen have sat after a feast of
delicacies—Syrian Plums stewed with Pomegranate
seeds; roasted field-fares, fresh Asparagus; Dates sent
from Thebes—and, having eaten, have enjoyed the
work of their topiarius, whose skill has cut hedges of
Laurel, Box, and Yew into the forms of ships, bears,
beasts and birds.</p>
<p class='c012'>Differing from the Greeks, who were not good gardeners,
the Romans, with a skill learnt partly from
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>Oriental countries, made much of their gardens, and
laid them out with infinite care and arrangement.
They raised their flower-beds in terraces, and edged
them with neat box borders; they made walks for shade,
and walks for sun; planted thickets, alleys of fruit
trees, orchards, and Vine pergolas. They had, as a rule,
in larger gardens, a gestatio, a broad pathway in which
they were carried about in litters. They had the
hippodromus, a circus for exercise, which had several
entrances with paths leading to different parts of the
garden.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is not too much to presume that the Romans, who
spent their lives in our country, and build magnificent
villas for themselves, and brought over all the arts of
their country, brought, also, their methods of gardening,
and planted here as they planted in their villas outside
Rome, all the flowers, fruits and vegetables that the
country would produce.</p>
<p class='c012'>Tacitus was of the opinion that “the soil and climate
of England was very fit for all kinds of fruit trees,
except Vine and Olive; and for all kinds of edible
vegetables.” In this he was right but for the Vine, which
was planted here in the Third Century, and we know
of vineyards and wine made from them in the Eighth
Century.</p>
<p class='c012'>Of gardeners there was the topiarius, a fancy gardener,
whose main business it was to be expert on growing,
cutting and clipping trees. The villicus, or viridarius,
who was the real villa gardener, with much the same
duties as our gardener of to-day. The hortulanus is a
later term. And there was the aquarius, a slave whose
duty it was to see that all the garden was provided with
proper aqueducts, and who managed the fountains
which, without doubt, formed a great part in garden
ornament. I imagine, also, that the aquarius would
<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>have control over the supply of hot water which must
flow through the green-houses where early fruits and
flowers were forced; such fruits as Winter Grapes,
Melons, and Gherkins; and of flowers, the Rose in particular,
for use in garlands and crowns.</p>
<p class='c012'>Violets and Roses were the principal flowers, being
often grown as borders to the beds of vegetables, so
that one might find Violets, Onions, Turnips, and Kidney
Beans flourishing together.</p>
<p class='c012'>Besides these flowers there were also the Crocus,
Narcissus, Lily, Iris, Hyacinth (the Greek emblem of
the dead in memory of the youth killed by Apollo by
mistake with a quoit), Poppy, and the bright red Damask
Rose and Lupias.</p>
<p class='c012'>In the orchards of Rome were Cherries, Plums, Quinces,
Pomegranates, Peaches, Almonds, Medlars, and Mulberries;
and in the vineyards were thirty varieties of
Grapes. Those kinds of fruits which were hardy enough
to stand our climate were grown here, and to judge
from all account only the Olive failed to meet the test.</p>
<p class='c012'>Not only were flowers and fruit grown in profusion
but Herbs, Asparagus, and Radishes had their place.</p>
<p class='c012'>Honey, which took a great place in Roman cookery,
and in making possets, and in thickening wine, was provided
by bees kept especially in apiaries built in sheltered
places, with beds of Cytisus, and Thyme and
Apiastrum by them. The hives were built of brick or
baked dung, and were placed in tiers, the lowest on
stone parapets about three feet above the ground;
these parapets being covered with smooth stucco to
prevent lizards and insects from entering the hives.</p>
<p class='c012'>The descriptions by the younger Pliny of his villas
and gardens are so delightful in themselves, besides
being of great value, that I am going to quote largely
from them.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>The village of Laurentium where Pliny built his villa
was on the shores of the Tuscan Sea, and not far from
the mouth of the Tiber. The villa was built as a refuge
after a hard day’s work in Rome, which was only seventeen
miles away. “A distance,” he says, “which
allows us, after we have finished the business of the
day, to return thither from town, with the setting sun.”</p>
<p class='c012'>There were two roads from Rome to this villa, the
one the Laurentine road—“if you go the Laurentine
you must quit the high road at the fourteenth stone”—and
the Ostian road, where the branch took place at the
eleventh.</p>
<p class='c012'>After a description of the house and the baths he
writes of the garden:</p>
<p class='c012'>“At no great distance is the tennis-court, so situated,
as never to be annoyed by the heat, and to be visited
only by the setting sun. At the end of the tennis-court
rises a tower, containing two rooms at the top
of it, and two again under them; besides a banqueting
room, from whence there is a view of very wide ocean,
a very extensive continent, and numberless beautiful
villas interspersed upon the shore. Answerable to this
is another turret containing, on the top, one single room
where we enjoy both the rising and the setting sun.
Underneath is a very large store-room for fruit, and a
granary, and under these again a dining-room from
whence, even when the sea is most tempestuous, we
only hear the roaring of it, and that but languidly and
at a distance. It looks upon the garden, and the place
for exercise which encludes my garden. The whole is
encompassed with Box; and where that is wanting
with Rosemary; for Box, when sheltered by buildings,
will flourish very well, but wither immediately if exposed
to wind and weather, or ever so distantly affected
by the moist dews from the sea. The place for exercise
<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>surrounds a delicate shady vineyard, the paths of
which are easy and soft even to the naked feet.</p>
<p class='c012'>“The garden is filled with Mulberry and Fig trees; the
soil being propitious to both those kinds of trees, but
scarce to any other.</p>
<p class='c012'>“A dining-room, too remote to view the ocean, commands
an object no less agreeable, the prospect of the
garden: and at the back of the dining-room are two
apartments, whose windows look upon the vestibule of
the house; and upon a fruitery and a kitchen garden.
From hence you enter into a covered gallery, large
enough to appear a public work. The gallery has a
double row of windows on both sides; in the lower
row are several which look towards the sea; and one
on each side towards the garden; in the upper row
there are fewer; in calm days when there is not a
breath of air stirring we open all the windows, but in
windy weather we take the advantage of opening that
side only which is entirely free from the hurricane.
Before the gallery lies a terrace perfumed with Violets.
The building not only retains the heat of the sun, and
increases it by reflexion, but defends and protects us
from the northern blasts.”</p>
<div id='o080' class='figcenter id006'>
<img src='images/opp_080.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>ENTRANCE TO THE GARDENS, AYSCOUGH FEE HALL, SPALDING.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>After a further description of this gallery written
with some care, Pliny begins his praise of his garden
apartment. No man but a man of true leisure could
have dwelt so lovingly on a description of a summer-house.
Herrick loved his simple things as much, and
sang them tenderly. The small things that come close
to us, to keep us warm from all life’s disappointments,
these are the things our hearts sing out to, these are
the things we think of when we are from home. “At
the end of the terrace, adjoining to the gallery, is a little
garden-apartment, which I own is my delight. In
truth it is my mistress: I built it; and in it is a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>particular kind of sun-trap which looks on one side towards
the terrace, on the other towards the sea, but on both
sides has the advantage of the sun. A double door
opens into another room, and one of the windows has
a full view of the gallery. On the side next the sea,
over against the middle wall, is an elegant little closet;
separated only by transparent windows, and a curtain
which can be opened or shut at pleasure, from the room
just mentioned. It holds a bed and two chairs; the
feet of the bed stand towards the sea, the back towards
the house, and one side of it towards some distant
woods. So many different views, seen from so many
different windows diversify and yet blend the prospect.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Adjoining to this cabinet is my own constant bedchamber,
where I am never disturbed by the discourse
of my servants, the murmurs of the sea, nor the violence
of a storm. Neither lightning nor daylight can break in
upon me till my own windows are opened. The reason of
so perfect and undisturbed a calm here arises from a
large void space which is left between the walls of the
bedchamber and of the garden; so that all sound is
drowned in the intervening space.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Close to the bedchamber is a little stove, placed so
near a small window of communication that it lets out,
or retains, the heat just as we think fit.</p>
<p class='c012'>“From hence we pass through a lobby into another
room, which stands in such a position as to receive the
sun, though obliquely, from daybreak till past noon.”</p>
<p class='c012'>There is one thing in this description that is very noteworthy,
the absolute content with everything, the lack
of any note of grumbling. After all, the pleasures of that
garden apartment were very simple; he took his joy of
the sun, the wind, and the distant sound of the sea.
Heat, light, and the pleasant music of nature; the bank
of Violets near by, the prospect of the villas on the shore
<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>glimmering amidst their greenery in the sun; the
songs of birds in the thickets of Myrtle and Rosemary,
there made up the fine moments of his life.</p>
<p class='c012'>Such little houses were copied from the Eastern idea,
such as is pointed to several times in the Bible. The
Shunamite gives such a house to Elisha:</p>
<p class='c013'>“Let us make him a little chamber, I pray thee, with walls;
and let us set him there a bed, and a table, and a stool, and
a candlestick, that he may turn in thither when he cometh
to us.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Whether a Roman living in England ever built himself
such a house it is difficult to prove, since, so far as I can
find, no remains of such a place are to be seen. But,
when one considers the actual evidence of the Roman
Occupation, the yields given by the neighbourhoods of
Roman cities, the statues, vases, toys, the amphitheatres
for cock-fighting, wrestling, and gladiatoral
combat, then surely there were gardens of great wonder
near to these cities where men like Pliny went to sit in
their garden houses and enjoyed the cool of the evening
after a day’s work.</p>
<p class='c012'>I have always made it a fancy of mine to suppose such
an apartment to have stood on the spot where a garden
house I know now stands. I have sat in this little house,
a tiny place compared to Pliny’s, and pictured to myself
the surrounding country as it might have looked under
the eyes of our Roman conquerors. Not far distant is a
Roman town, outside which is a huge amphitheatre;
the Roman road, via Iceniana, cutting through the
western downs and forests. Over this very countryside
were villas scattered here and there, bridges, walls,
moats and camps. Even to-day, not far away from my
summer-house, are two small Roman bridges, over
which, in my day-dreams, the previous occupier of the
site has often passed.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>Here, from this summer-house, I look upon an apiary,
a bed of Violets, a little wood that gives shelter to the
birds, a running stream where trout leap in the pools.
My Roman friend, had he built his house here, would
have looked, as I look, at green meadows, and across them
to a wild heath on which rise the very mounds he must
have known, British earthworks, and the heap-up burial
places of great British chiefs. Round about the house
grow many flowers that would seem homely to my
ghostly friend, Roses, Lilies, Narcissi, Violets, Poppies.
Here he might have sat and contemplated, as Pliny did,
and taken his pleasure of the sun, the wind, the birds.
The sea he could not have heard, since it is eight miles
away, but he could well have seen storms come up over
the western downs, known that the Roman galleys were
seeking shelter in the coves and harbours, and noticed
how the gulls flew screaming inland, and the Egyptian
swallows flew low before the coming tempest.</p>
<p class='c012'>This house that I know is a simple affair, compared
to the elaborate design of Pliny’s; it is a small thatched
single apartment built in the elbow of the garden wall.
It is not tuned to trap the sun, or dull the sounds of the
violence of the winds, but its solitary window opens wide
to let in the sound of the bees at work, the thrush singing
in the Lilac tree, or tapping his snails on a big stone by the
side of the garden path. It has a shelf for books, two
chairs, a writing table, and an infinity of those odds and
ends a person collects who deals with bees. Withal it is
pervaded by a very sweet smell of honey.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then there are ghosts for company if the books, the
birds, and the bees fail. There is my Roman to speak
for his villa, for the glories of the town near by. There
is the British chieftain whose mound is not two miles
away, a mound where his charred ashes lie, but the urn
that held them is on a shelf overhead. There are Saxons
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>who have trod this very ground, and Danes and Normans,
men also from Anjou, Gascony, and Maine, and a
host of others. Then there are the flowers themselves
with romances every one.</p>
<p class='c012'>If I have a mind to following fancy and turn this into a
veritable Roman garden, I can link my fancy with Pliny’s
facts and see how it would have been ordered and arranged.
I can see the villa portico with its terrace in
front of it adorned with statues and edged with Box.
Below here is a gravel walk on each side of which are
figures of animals cut in Box. Then there is the circus at
the end of a broad path, where my Roman friend could
exercise himself on horseback. Round about the circus
are sheared dwarf trees, and clipped Box hedges. On the
outside of this is a lawn, smooth and green. Then comes
my summer-house shaded with Plane trees, with a marble
fountain that plays on the roots of the trees and the
grass round them. There would be a walk near by
covered with Vines, and ended by an Ivy-covered wall.
Several alleys (my imagination has traced their courses)
wind in and out to meet in the end of a series of straight
walks divided by grass plots, or Box trees cut into
a thousand shapes; some of letters forming my
Roman’s name; others the name of his gardener. In
these are mixed small pyramid Apple trees; “and now
and then (to follow Pliny’s plan) you met, on a sudden,
with a spot of ground, wild and uncultivated, as if
transplanted hither on purpose.” Everywhere are
marble or stone seats, little fountains, arbours covered
with Vines, and facing beds of Roses, or Violets, or
Herbs, and always is to be heard the pleasant murmur
of water “conveyed through pipes by the hand of the
artificer.”</p>
<p class='c012'>The more I think of it the more I see how exactly the
garden I know fulfils this purpose. Except for a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>greater, a far greater display of flowers, Pliny would be
quite at home here. There is an abundance of water;
the very site for the horse course; winding alleys,
straight paths, and several pergolas for Roses.</p>
<p class='c012'>A noticeable thing in the planning of a Roman garden,
and one that is too often absent from our own, is the
great attention paid to the value of water. In many
places where there is an abundant supply of water, with
streams running close by, or even through the garden,
we find no attempt made to use the value of water either
decoratively or for useful purposes. We are apt to dispose
our gardens for the purposes of large collections of
flowers, whereas the Roman with his small store of them
was forced to bring every aid to bear on varying his
garden, such as seats, fountains, and little artificial
brooks. The cost, even in small gardens, of arranging
a decorative effect of water, where water is plentiful,
would not amount to so very much, and in many cases
would be a great saving of labour. We use wells to some
extent, and, to my mind, a properly-built well-head,
with a roof and posts, and seats, is one of the most beautiful
garden ornaments we can have.</p>
<p class='c012'>The well-head itself should be built of brick raised
about eighteen inches above the ground, and should be at
least fourteen inches broad in the shelf, so that the
buckets have ample room in which to stand. The coil
and windlass are better if they are both simple, and of
good timber. Round this a brick path, two feet broad,
should be laid. Over all a roof of red tiles supported on
square wooden posts or brick pillars, would give shade to
the well, and to a seat of plain design that should be
placed against the outer edge of the brick path. And if
beds of flowers were set about it all, as I have seen done,
and well done, in a cottage garden in Kent, the effect is
quaint and beautiful.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>I have no doubt that in Roman England such wells
were built where the supply of water was not equal to
great distribution. But it is amazing to think that such
a tiny village as Laurentium, where Pliny had one of his
villas outside Rome, held three Inns, in each of which
were baths always heated and ready for travellers, and
that it has taken us until the present day to bring the
bath into the ordinary house.</p>
<p class='c012'>Naturally, when one casts one’s eyes over a picture of
a Roman garden in England, and compares it with a garden
of to-day, the very first thing we find missing is that
mass of colour and that wonderful variety of bloom that
constitutes the apex of modern gardening. Where they
were surprised, or gave themselves sudden shocks to the
eye, it was by means of little grottos, fountains, vistas at
the ends of long alleys, statues in a wild part of a garden,
or unexpected seats commanding a prospect opened out
by an arrangement of the trees. We prepare for ourselves
wildernesses in which the Spring shall paint her
wonderful picture of Anemones, Daffodils, Crocuses, and
such flowers; where Blue Bells and Primroses, Ragged
Robin, and Foxgloves hold us by their vivid colour. Our
scarlet armies of Geranium, our banks of purple Asters, or
the flaming panoplies of Roses with which we illuminate
our gardens would seem to the Roman something
wonderful and strange. Yet, in a sense, his taste
was more subtle. He held green against green, a bed
of Herbs, the occasional jewel of a clump of Violets,
more to his manner of liking. And he arranged his
garden so as to contain as many varieties of walks as
possible.</p>
<p class='c012'>In the evenings now, when I am, by chance, staying
in the house whose garden holds that summer-house I
love, I can see my old Roman of my dreams wandering
over his estate, and I almost feel his presence near me as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>his ghost sits on the wooden seat by the lawn and his eyes
seem to peer across the meadows back to where Rome
herself lies over the eastern hills. An exile, buried far
from Rome, his spirit seems to hover here as if he could
not sleep in peace away from the warm, sweet Italy of
his birth.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>
<h2 class='c006'>II<br /> <br />ST. FIACRE, PATRON SAINT OF GARDENERS<br />AND CAB-DRIVERS</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Gardeners who, to a man, are dedicated to peaceful
and meditative pursuits, should care to know of the story
of Saint Fiacre, the Irish Prince who turned hermit, and
after his death was hailed Patron of Gardeners.</p>
<p class='c012'>He left Ireland, says the story, at that time when a
missionary zeal was sending Irish monks the length and
breadth of Europe. As Saint Pol left Britain and slew
the Dragon on the Isle of Batz; Saint Gall drove the
spirits of flood across the Lake of Constance; Saint
Columban founded monasteries in Burgundy and the
Apennines, so did Saint Fiacre leave his native land and
take himself to France, and there by a miracle enlarge
the space of his garden.</p>
<p class='c012'>At Meaux, on the river Marne, near Paris, the Bishop
Saint Faron had founded a new monastery in the woods
and called it the Monastery of Saint Croix. To this
monastery came the son of the Irish King, and made his
vows. It was early days in Europe, for Saint Fiacre
died in or about the year 670, and it is almost impossible
to imagine the perils and discomforts of his journey, for
in Britain and Gaul fighting was going on, roads were bad
and unsafe, the sea had to be crossed in an open boat.</p>
<div id='o089' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_089.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A CAB-DRIVER IN PICCADILLY.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>But these Celts, driven west by war, now began to
make their own war on Europe, not with sword and
shield and battle-cry, but with pilgrim’s staff, and reed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>pen, and the device of Christ on their hearts. Illumination,
one of the marvels of monkish accomplishment,
was spread throughout Europe by bands of Irish monks,
who, taking the wonderful traditions of such work as
“The Book of Kells,” and those works written and
illuminated at Lindisfarne, went their ways from country
to country spreading their culture as well as their
message.</p>
<p class='c012'>Saint Fiacre stayed a certain time in the monastery
until, indeed, the voice within him calling for more
solitude and for another mode of life, forced him to
go to the Bishop. To him he spoke of his vocation,
of those feelings within him that prompted him to
become a hermit.</p>
<p class='c012'>The good Bishop seeing in Fiacre a good intention,
and perceiving doubtless the holy nature of the monk,
granted him a space on his own domain, some way
from the monastery, on the edge of the woods and the
plain of Brie. To this place the monk repaired and
began the great work of his life.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now it is not easy for the best of men at the best of
times to live solitary in a wood without becoming
something of a self-conscious or morbid person. Not
so with these old hermits. They seemed to have the
grace of such excessive spirituality as to have been
uplifted above ordinary men, and to have lost all sense
of loneliness in conversation with the Saints, and in
communion with God.</p>
<p class='c012'>What finer means of reaching this exalted condition
than by labouring to make a garden in the wilderness?
Saint Fiacre cleared a space in the woods with his own
hands, and in this space he built an oratory to Our
Lady, and a hut by it wherein he dwelt. All must
have been of the most primitive order; one of those
beehive shaped buildings, such as still remain in Ireland,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>for the oratory, fashioned out of stones and mud in
what is called rag-work, and most probably roofed
with turf.</p>
<p class='c012'>After the work of building he began to make his
garden. It is evident that his clearing was not near
the river as the fountain or well from which he drew
his water is still to be seen and it is a considerable
distance away.</p>
<p class='c012'>Imagine the solitary life of this priest gardener, whose
food depended entirely on the produce of the ground.
To any man the silence of the woods holds a mysterious
calm, a weird, haunting uneasiness. To dwellers in
woods, after a time, the silence becomes full of friendly
voices; the fall of Acorns; the crackling of twigs as a
wild animal forces a passage through the undergrowth;
the snap of trees in the frost; the shuffling of birds
getting ready for the night. But here, in the wild
woods of Meaux in those early times, wolves, bears,
wild boars lived.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is possible to imagine the Saint on his knees at
night, the trees, dark masses round his garden, a heaven
above him pitted with stars, the smoke of his breath as
he prays rising like incense. And, as has been known
to be the case, all wild animals fearless of him, and
friendly to him in whom they see, by instinct, one who
will do them no harm. As Saint Jerome laid down with
the lions, as Saint Francis spoke with Brother Wolf,
and Sister Lark, so Saint Fiacre must have spoken with
his friends, the beasts. In the heart of a gardener lies
something to which all wild nature responds.</p>
<p class='c012'>But consider a man of that time alone in the wood,
at that time when men knew so little and whose lives
were full of superstitious guesses at scientific facts.
And think how much more full of dread Fiacre must
have been than an ordinary man, since he was one of a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>nation to whom fairies and goblins of every kind are
daily actualities. Think of the Saint seeing his own
face daily reflected in the well as he drew his water;
think of the mysterious quality of water in lonely wells
when it seems now to be troubled by unseen hands,
now to lift a clear smiling face to the sky. He must be
a mystic and a man filled with a simple goodness who
can garden in a wilderness like this.</p>
<p class='c012'>One can picture him seated at the door of his hut
eating his Acorn mash or Herb soup after a day’s work
and prayer. A stout wooden spade rests by his side,
the shaft of Oak worn smooth by his hands. In front
of him what labours show in the ground! Huge
stumps of trees that have been uprooted and dragged
away; herbs he has tried to grow showing green in
the heavy soil; wild flowers sweeting the air; here the
beginnings of a vineyard; there the first blades of a
patch of Wheat, or Oats.</p>
<p class='c012'>In various parts of Europe were other Irish people
at work sweetening the soil. Saint Gobhan near Laon,
Saint Etto, at Dompierre, Saint Caidoc and Saint
Fricor in Picardy, and Saint Judoc also there, Saint
Fursey, at Lagny, six miles north of Paris; and a
daughter of an Irish king, Saint Dympna, at Gheel, in
Belgium. These are but a few of the Irish who ventured
forth to save the world. Beyond all of these does Saint
Fiacre appeal to us who love our gardens.</p>
<p class='c012'>Self-denial has been called the luxury of the Saints,
yet the phrase-maker would seem to such denials of
unessentials as rich foods and wines, and mortifications
of the flesh which a man may choose to do without any
suggestion of Saintship. Here, in Saint Fiacre, we
have a man whose process of purification was symbolised
by his work. The uprooting of trees, the uprooting
of a thousand superstitious ideas; the purifying of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>soil, the cleansing of his heart; the growing of food,
the sustenance for his spirit besides his body.</p>
<p class='c012'>He leaves his native land, he becomes monk, hermit,
gardener. He dwells in the wilds of a forest, one man,
alone, doing no great deed one might imagine that
would cause his fame to travel, living his quiet simple
life shut right away from the world by leagues of forest,
more buried than a man in the wilderness. For cathedral,
the depth of his woods, the aisles of great trees, the
tracery and windows made by boughs and leaves.
For choir, the birds. He was, one would think, so
utterly alone, that no step but his own ever broke the
silence of the woodland glades; so isolated that no
human voice but his own ever penetrated the brakes
and thickets. Yet he became known.</p>
<p class='c012'>Doubtless some hunter, a wild man, to whom the
tracks in the forest were as roads, coming one day
through the woods after game, burst into the clearing,
and stood amazed, paused suspicious, wondering to
see the little oratory, the hut, the garden all about.
The hunter casts his keen eyes about, here and there,
alert, scenting danger, eyeing the new place with
anxious wonder, holding his spear in readiness. Then
comes the Saint from his hut and calls him brother,
bids him put down his spear, sit and eat.</p>
<p class='c012'>The hunter goes; a swineherd, seeking lost droves of
pigs turned loose to fatten on the acorns, comes across
the place. The news filters through the country,
reaches the huddled villages by the river, reaches the
dwellers in the hills, the people of the forest. They
come to look, to stare, to be amazed. To each Saint
Fiacre offers his hospitality.</p>
<p class='c012'>As men, drawn irresistibly by a strong personality,
will throng towards a well whose water is supposed to
contain some virtue, or a stone to touch which restores
<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>lost friends, so they came to test the holiness of this
man of the woods, and found him good, and true, and
full of peace. And they marvelled to find a garden in
the wood, and, being entreated, eat of its produce, and
heard the holy man preach, and saw him heal. Then
the Saint was forced to build another hut for those of
his visitors who came from far to consult him, and, as
the crowds grew greater he was forced to go to the Bishop
to ask for more land.</p>
<p class='c012'>Saint Faron, the Bishop of Meaux, to whom all the
forest belonged, knew his man. One can imagine two
such men leading lofty and spiritual lives meeting in the
monastery. I like to think of the Bishop as one of those
thin men full of years, with a skin like parchment, his
holiness shining out of his eyes, a man whose quiet
voice, tuned to the silence of the monastery, breathes
peace. And Fiacre, bronzed with the open air, rough
with labour, with the curious eyes of the mystic, eyes
that looked as if they had pierced the veil of a mystery,
standing before his Bishop asking for his grant of land.</p>
<p class='c012'>Coming from the depths of the heavy wood into the
town, leaving the silence of his forest for the noise of the
place, he must have felt strange. Those who met him
were, I am sure, conscious of the atmosphere he carried
with him, the envelope all lonely men wear, the curious
reserve common to all dwellers in woods, and wilds.</p>
<p class='c012'>The Bishop consented to the demand, and gave him
his desire after a curious manner. Perhaps to test
this hermit whose fame had already spread so far,
perhaps to see how real were the stories he must have
heard of his spiritual son, this holy gardener, he granted
him as much land as he could enclose with his spade in
one day.</p>
<p class='c012'>Back went Saint Fiacre to his forest clearing, to his
friends the birds, his bubbling wells, his aisles of trees,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>his garden, now well grown, and, breaking a stick he
marked out far and wide the space of land he needed,
more than any man could in one day enclose with any
spade. And after that into the little oratory he went
and prayed for help.</p>
<p class='c012'>You may be sure every movement of this was carefully
observed. A woman envied him and spied on these
proceedings. I take it she was some woman to whom,
before the Saint grew famous, the peasants came for
spells and simples, a wise woman, a witch, whose reputation
was at stake.</p>
<p class='c012'>The Saint’s prayer was answered. The woman, evil
report on her tongue, made her journey to the Bishop
of Meaux, and accused Fiacre of magic, of dealings
with the Devil. Roused by the report, the Bishop
came to see the Saint and saw all that had happened.
In one day all the wide space Fiacre had marked out
had been enclosed. After that the oratory was denied
to all women. Even as late as 1641, nearly a thousand
years after his death, when Anne of Austria visited his
shrine in the Cathedral of Meaux she did not enter the
Chapel but remained outside the grating. It was the
legend, handed down all that time, that any woman
who entered there would go blind or mad.</p>
<p class='c012'>Where the Saint had dug his solitary garden, and on
the site of his cell a great Benedictine Priory was built
in after years, where his body was kept and did many
wonders of healing, especially in the cure of a certain
fleshy tumour, which they called “le fie de St. Fiacre.”
After many years, in the beginning of the seventeenth
century, his body was removed to the Cathedral at
Meaux.</p>
<p class='c012'>So it may be seen for how good a cause he became
known as Patron of Gardeners, and it must now be
shown why he is called the Patron of Cab Drivers. In
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>1640 a man of the name of Sauvage started an establishment
in Paris from which he let out carriages for hire.
He took a house for this business in the Rue St. Martin,
and the house was known as the Hotel de St. Fiacre,
and there was a figure of the Saint over the doorway.</p>
<p class='c012'>All the coaches plying from here began to be called,
for short, fiacres, and the drivers placed images of the
Saint on their carriages, and claimed him as their patron.</p>
<p class='c012'>There is a Pardon of St. Fiacre in Brittany; and there
are churches and altars to him all over France.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>
<h2 class='c006'>III<br /> <br />EVELYN’S “SYLVA”</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>On my table, as I write, is the copy of “Sylva”
that John Evelyn himself gave to Sir Robert Morray,
and in which he wrote in ink that is now faded and
brown, as are his own autograph corrections in the
text,</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“—from his most humble servant, Evelyn.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The title page runs thus:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>SYLVA,</div>
<div>or a Discourse of</div>
<div>FOREST-TREES,</div>
<div>AND THE</div>
<div>Propagation of Timber</div>
<div>In His MAJESTIES Dominions</div>
<div>By J. E. Esq;</div>
<div class='c000'>As it was Delivered in the Royal Society the XVth of</div>
<div>October CIϽIϽCLXII. upon Occasion of certain Quaeries</div>
<div>Propounded to that Illustrious Assembly, by the Honorable</div>
<div>the Principal Officers, and Commissioners of the Navy.</div>
<div class='c000'>To which is annexed</div>
<div class='c000'>POMONA or, An Appendix concerning Fruit-Trees in</div>
<div>relation to CIDER;</div>
<div class='c000'>The Making and several ways of Ordering it.</div>
<div class='c000'>Published by the express Order of the ROYAL SOCIETY</div>
<div class='c000'>ALSO</div>
<div class='c000'>KALENDARIUM HORTENSE; Or, ye Gard’ners Almanac;</div>
<div>Directing what he is to do Monethly throughout the year.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>—Tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis</div>
<div class='line'>Ingredior, tantos ausus recludere fonteis. <i>Virg.</i></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>LONDON: Printed by Jo. Martyn, and Ja. Allestry, Printers</div>
<div>to the Royal Society, and are to be sold at their Shop at the</div>
<div>Bell in S. Paul’s Church-yard;</div>
<div class='c000'>MDCLXIV.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div id='o096' class='figcenter id007'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>
<img src='images/opp_096.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A WOOD AT WOTTON, THE HOME OF JOHN EVELYN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>This book was the first ever printed for the Royal
Society, and contains, as may be seen, a practically complete
record of seventeenth century planting and gardening,
thus having an unique interest for all who follow the
craft.</p>
<p class='c012'>John Evelyn, from the day he began his lessons
under the Friar in the porch of Wotton Church, was a
curious observer of men and things, but especially was
he devoted to all manners and styles of gardening.</p>
<p class='c012'>Nothing was too small, too trivial to escape his notice;
from the weather-cocks on the trees near Margate—put
there on the days the farmers feasted their servants, to
the interest he found in watching the first man he ever
saw drink coffee.</p>
<p class='c012'>The positions he held under Charles II. and James II.
were many and varied, yet he found time to collect
samples in Venice, and travel extensively, to write a Play,
a treatise called: “Mundus Muliebris, or the Ladies’
Dressing Room, Unlocked,” and a pamphlet, called
“Tyrannus, or the Mode,” in which he sought to make
Charles II. dress like a Persian, and succeeded in so
doing.</p>
<p class='c012'>But above all these things he held his chiefest pleasure
in seeing and talking of the arrangement of gardens,
passing on this love to his son John, who, when a boy of
fifteen, at Trinity College, Oxford, translated “Rapin,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>or Gardens,” the second book of which his father included
in his second edition of “Sylva.”</p>
<p class='c012'>His Majesty Charles II., to whom the “Sylva” is
dedicated, was a monarch to whom justice has never
been properly done. He is represented by pious but
inaccurate historians, those men who for many years
gave a false character of jovial good nature to that gross
thief and sacrilegious monster, Henry VIII., as a King
who spent most of his time in the Playhouse, or in talking
trivialities with gay ladies, and in making witty remarks
to all and sundry in his Court. The side of him that took
interest in shipbuilding, navigation, astronomy, in the
founding of the Royal Society, in the advancement of Art,
in the minor matters of flower gardening and bee-keeping
is nearly always suppressed. It was largely through his
interest in this volume of Evelyn’s that the Royal forests
were properly replanted; and it was in a great measure
due to Royal interest that the parks and estates of the
noblemen of England became famous in after years for
their beautiful timber.</p>
<p class='c012'>In that part of the “Sylva” dealing with forest trees,
there were a hundred hints to all lovers of nature and of
gardens, for your good gardener is a man very near in his
nature to a good strong tree, and loves to observe the
play of light and shade in the branches of those that give
shade to his garden walks.</p>
<p class='c012'>Evelyn tells us how the Ash is the sweetest of forest
fuelling, and the fittest for Ladies’ Chambers, also for the
building of Arbours, the staking of Espaliers, and the
making of Poles. The white rot of it makes a ground for
the Sweet-powder used by gallants. He tries to introduce
the Chestnut as food, saying how it is a good, lusty
and masculine food for Rustics; and commenting on the
fact that the best tables in France and Italy make them
a service. He tells us how the water in which Walnut
<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>husks and leaves are boiled poured on the carpet of walks
and bowling-greens infallibly kills the worms without
hurting the grass. That, by the way, is a matter for discussion
among gardeners, seeing that some say that the
movements of worms from below the surface to their
cast on the lawn lets air among the grass roots and is good
for them.</p>
<p class='c012'>He tells us how the Horn-beam makes the stateliest
hedge for long garden walks. He advises us how to
make wine of the Birch, Ash, Elder, Oak, Crab and
Bramble. He praises the Service-Tree, and the Eugh, and
the Jasmine, saying of this last how one sorry tree in
Paris where they grow “has been worth to a poor
woman, near twenty shillings a year.”</p>
<p class='c012'>All this and much besides of diverting and instructive
reading, varied with remarks on the gardens of his
friends and acquaintances, as when he “cannot but
applaud the worthy Industry of old <i>Sir Harbotle Grimstone</i>,
who (I am told) from a very small <i>Nursery of
Acorns</i> which he sowed in the neglected corners of his
ground, did draw forth such numbers of <i>Oaks</i> of
competent growth; as being planted about his <i>Fields</i> in
even and uniform rows, about one hundred foot from the
<i>Hedges</i>; bush’d and well water’d till they had sufficiently
fix’d themselves, did wonderfully improve
both the beauty, and the value of his <i>Demeasnes</i>,”
for the honour and glory of filling England with
fine trees and gardens to improve, what he calls—the
Landskip.</p>
<p class='c012'>The exigencies of the present moment when Imperial
Finance threatens to tax all good parks and orchards out
of existence, and to make all fine flower gardens out of
use, except to the enormously wealthy, makes the
“Gard’ners Calendar” all the more interesting as
showing what manner of flowers, fruits, and vegetables
<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>were in use in the Seventeenth Century, and the means
employed to grow and preserve them.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then, as now, there was a danger of over cultivation of
certain plants and flowers, so that a man might have
more pride in the number and curiosity of his flowers,
than in the beauty and colour of them. It is a certain
fault in modern gardeners that they do not study the
grouping and massing of colours, but do, more generally,
take pride in over-large specimens, great collections,
and rare varieties. But this age and that are times of
collecting, of connoisseurship, ages that produce us great
art of their own but have an extraordinary knowledge of
the arts and devices of the past. Not that I would
decry the friendly competitions of this and that man to
grow rare rock plants, or bloom exotics the one against
another, but I do most certainly prefer a rivalry in producing
beautiful effects of colour; and love better to see
a great mass of Roses growing free than to see one poor
tree twisted into the semblance of a flowering parasol as
men now use in many of the small climbing Roses.</p>
<p class='c012'>To the end that gardeners and lovers of gardens may
know how those past gardeners treated their fruits and
flowers, I give the whole of Evelyn’s “Gard’ners
Calendar,” than which no more complete account of
gardens of that time exists.</p>
<p class='c012'>It would be as well to note, before arriving at our
Seventeenth Century Calendar, how the art of gardening
had grown in England after the time of the Romans.</p>
<p class='c012'>From the time that every sign of the Roman occupation
had been wiped out to the beginning of the thirteenth
century, gardens as we know them to-day did not
exist. The first attempts at gardens within castle walls
were little plots of herbs and shrubs with a few trees of
Costard Apples. It appears that all those plants and
flowers the Romans cultivated had been lost, and that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>with the sterner conditions of living all such arrangements
as arbours of cut Yew trees, or elaborate Box-edged
paths had completely vanished. Certainly they
did have arbours for shade, but of a simple kind and quite
unlike the elaborate garden houses the Romans built.</p>
<p class='c012'>There were vineyards and wine made from them as
early as the Eighth Century, and in the reign of Edward
the Third wine was made at Windsor Castle by Stephen
of Bourdeaux. The Cherry trees brought here by the
Romans had quite died out and were not recovered
until Harris, Henry the Eighth’s Irish fruiterer, grew
them again at Sittingbourne. In the Twelfth Century
flower gardening again came in, and within the castle
walls pleasant gardens were laid out with little avenues
of fruit trees, and neat beds of flowers. Of the fruit
trees there was the Costard Apple, the only Apple of that
time, from which great quantities of cider—that
“good-natured and potable liquor”—was made. There
was the great Wardon Pear, from which the celebrated
Wardon pies were made; they were Winter Pears from
a stock originally cultivated by those great horticulturists
the Cistercian monks of Wardon in Bedfordshire.
Then there was also the Quince, called a Coyne,
the Medlar, and I believe the Mulberry, or More tree.
In the borders, Strawberries, Raspberries, Barberries
and Currants were grown, that is in a well-stocked
garden such as the Earl of Lincoln had in Holborn in
1290. Then there was a plot set aside as a Physic
garden where herbs grew and salads of Rocket, Lettuce,
Mustard, Watercress, and Hops. In one place, probably
overlooking the pond or fountain which was the centre
of such gardens, was an arbour, and walks and smaller
gardens were screened off by wattle hedges. In that
part of the garden devoted to flowers were Roses, Lilies,
Sunflowers, Violets, Poppies, Narcissi, Pervinkes or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>Periwinkles. Lastly, and most important was the
Clove Pink, or Gilly-flower, a variety of Wallflower then
called Bee-flower. Add to this an apiary and you have
a complete idea of the mediæval garden.</p>
<p class='c012'>Later, in the Fifteenth Century came a new feature
into the garden, a mound built in the centre for the view,
made sometimes of earth, but very often of wood
raised up as a platform, and having gaily carved and
painted stairways. These, with butts for archery,
and bowling-greens, and a larger variety of the old
kinds of flowers, showed the principal difference.</p>
<p class='c012'>We come now to the gardens of the Sixteen Century,
when flower gardening was extremely popular. Spenser
and the other poets are always describing the beauties
of flowers, and from these and old Herbals, from Bacon,
Shakespeare and other writers of that time, we are able
to see how, slowly but surely, the art of flower growing
had advanced. The gardens were very exact and
formal, and were divided in geometrical patterns, and
grew large “seats” of Violets, Penny Royal, and Mint
as well as other herbs. Above all, a new addition to the
mounds, archery butts and bowling-greens, was the
maze which had a place in every proper garden of the
Elizabethans.</p>
<p class='c012'>The first garden where flower growing was taken
really seriously belonged to John Parkinson, a London
apothecary who had a garden in Long Acre. Great
importance was given to smell, as is highly proper,
and flower gardens were bordered with Thyme, Marjoram
and Lavender. Highly-scented flowers were
the most prized, and for this reason the prime favourite
the Carnation, was more grown than any other flower.
Of this there were fifty distinct varieties of every shape
and size, including the famous large Clove Pink, the
golden coloured Sops-in-Wine.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>With the increase in the variety of the Rose, of which
about thirty kinds were known, came the fashion,
quickly universal, of keeping potpourri of dried Rose
leaves, many of which were imported from the East,
from whence, years before, had come quantities of Roses
to supply the demand in Winter in Rome.</p>
<p class='c012'>As the fashion for growing flowers increased so, also,
did the efforts of gardeners to procure new and rare
flowers from foreign countries, and soon the Fritillary,
Tulip and Iris were extensively cultivated, and were
treated with extraordinary care.</p>
<p class='c012'>Following this came the rage for Anemones and
Ranunculi, in which people endeavoured to excel over
their friends. And after that came in small Chrysanthemums,
Lilac or Blue Pipe tree, Lobelia, and the
Acacia tree.</p>
<p class='c012'>It will be seen that within quite a short space of time
the old garden containing few flowers, and only those
as a rule that had some medicinal properties, vanished
before a perfect orgy of colour and wealth of varieties;
and that gardening for pleasure gave the people a new
and fascinating occupation. The rage for Anemones
and for the different kinds of Ranunculus developed
until in the late Seventeenth Century the madness,
for it was nothing else, for Tulip collecting came in,
to give place still later to the Rose, and in our day only
to be equalled by the collection of Chrysanthemums
and Orchids.</p>
<p class='c012'>The best books previous to Evelyn’s “Sylva” are
Gervase Markham’s “Country House-Wife’s Garden,”
(1617), and John Parkinson’s “Paradisus in Sole”
(1629).</p>
<p class='c012'>One word more on the subject of flower mania. The
rage for the Tulip that attacked both English and
Dutch in the late Seventeenth Century is one of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>most peculiar things in the history of gardening. The
Tulip is really a Persian flower, the shape of it suggesting
the name, thoulyban, a Persian turban. It was
introduced into England about 1577, by way of
Germany, having been brought there by the German
Ambassador from Constantinople. By the Seventeenth
Century there had developed such a passion for this
flower that it led to wreck and ruin of rich men who
paid fabulous sums for the bulbs, a single bulb being
sold for a fortune. One bulb of the Semper Augustus
was sold for four thousand six hundred florins, a new
carriage, a pair of grey horses, and complete harness.
So great did the business in Tulips become that every
Dutch town had special Tulip exchanges, and there
speculators assembled and bid away vast sums to
acquire rare kinds. The mania lasted about three
years, and was only finally stopped by the Government.</p>
<div id='o105' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_104.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>TULIPS IN “THE GARDEN OF PEACE.”</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>
<h2 class='c006'>PART III<br /> <br />KALENDARIUM HORTENSE</h2>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c001'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>KALENDARIUM HORTENSE:</div>
<div>OR THE</div>
<div>GARD’NERS ALMANAC;</div>
<div class='c014'><span class='sc'>Directing what He is to do</span></div>
<div>MONETHLY</div>
<div><span class='sc'>Throughout the</span></div>
<div>YEAR</div>
<div class='c014'>1664</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>
<h2 class='c006'>JANUARY.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Trench the ground, and make it ready for the Spring:
prepare also soil, and use it where you have occasion:
Dig Borders, &c., uncover as yet Roots of Trees, where
Ablaqueation is requisite.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant Quick-Sets, and Transplant Fruit-trees, if not
finished: Set Vines; and begin to prune the old:
Prune the branches of Orchard-fruit-trees; Nail, and
trim your Wall-fruit, and Espaliers.</p>
<p class='c012'>Cleanse Trees of Moss, &c., the weather moist.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather Cyons for graffs before the buds sprout;
and about the later end, Graff them in the Stock: Set
Beans, Pease, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow also (if you please) for early Colly-flowers.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow Chevril, Lettuce, Radish, and other (more delicate)
Saleting; if you will raise in the Hot-bed.</p>
<p class='c012'>In over wet, or hard weather, cleanse, mend, sharpen
and prepare garden-tools.</p>
<p class='c012'>Turn up your Bee-hives, and sprinkle them with a
little warm and sweet Wort; do it dextrously.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Kentish-pepin, Russet-pepin, Golden-pepin, French
pepin, Kirton-pepin, Holland-pepin, John-apple, Winter-queening,
Mari-gold, Harvey-apple, Pome-water, Pomeroy,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>Golden-Doucet, Reineting, Loues-pearmain, Winter-Pearmain,
etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Winter-husk (bakes well), Winter-Norwich (excellently
baked), Winter-Bergamot, Winter-Bon-crestien, both
Mural: the great Surrein, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>JANUARY.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Set up your Traps for Vermin; especially in your
Nurseries of Kernels and Stones, and amongst your
Bulbous-roots: About the middle of this month, plant
your Anemony-roots, which will be secure of, without
covering, or farther trouble: Preserve from too great
and continuing Rains (if they happen), Snow and Frost,
your choicest Anemonies, and Ranunculus’s sow’d
in September, or October for earlier Flowers: Also
your Carnations, and such seeds as are in peril of being
wash’d out, or over chill’d and frozen; covering them
with Mats and shelter, and striking off the Snow where
it lies too weighty; for it certainly rots, and bursts
your early-set Anemonies and Ranunculus’s, etc., unless
planted now in the Hot-bed; for now is the Season, and
they will flower even in London. Towards the end,
earth-up, with fresh and light mould, the Roots of
those Auriculas which the frosts may have uncovered;
filling up the chinks about the sides of the Pots where
your choicest are set: but they need not be hous’d;
it is a hardy Plant.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Winter Aconite, some Anemonies, Winter Cyclamen,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>Black Hellebor, Beumal-Hyacinth, Oriental-Jacynth,
Levantine-Narcissus, Hepatica, Prime-Roses, Laurustinus,
Mezereon, Praecoce Tulips, etc., especially if raised
in the (Hot-bed).</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>NOTE.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>That both these Fruits and Flowers are more early,
or tardy, both as to their prime Seasons of eating, and
perfection of blowing, according as the soil, and situation,
are qualified by Nature or Accident.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>NOTE ALSO</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>That in this Recension of Monethly Flowers, it is to
be understood for the whole period that any flower
continues, from its first appearing, to its final withering.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>
<h2 class='c006'>FEBRUARY.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Prime Fruit-trees, and Vines, as yet. Remove graffs
of former year graffing. Cut and lay Quick-sets. Yet
you may Prune some Wall-fruit (not finish’d before)
the most tender and delicate: But be exceedingly careful
of the now turgid buds and bearers; and trim up
your Palisade Hedges, and Espaliers. Plant Vines as
yet, and the Shrubs, Hops, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Set all sorts of kernels and stony seeds. Also sow
Beans, Pease, Radish, Parsnips, Carrots, Onions, Garlick,
etc., and Plant Potatoes in your worst ground.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now is your Season for Circumposition by Tubs,
Baskets of Earth, and for laying of Branches to take
Root. You may plant forth your Cabbage-plants.</p>
<p class='c012'>Rub Moss off your Trees after a soaking Rain, and
scrape and cleanse them of Cankers, etc., draining away
the wet (if need require) from the too much moistened
Roots, and earth up those Roots of your Fruit-trees,
if any were uncover’d. Cut off the webs of Caterpillars,
etc. (from the Tops of Twigs and Trees) to burn. Gather
Worms in the evenings after Rain.</p>
<p class='c012'>Kitchen-Garden herbs may now be planted, as Parsly,
Spinage, and other hardy Pot-herbs. Towards the
middle of later end of this Moneth, till the Sap rises
briskly, Graff in the Cleft, and so continue till the last
of March; they will hold Apples, Pears, Cherries,
Plums, etc. Now also plant out your Colly-flowers
<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>to have early; and begin to make your Hot-bed for the
first Melons and Cucumbers; but trust not altogether
to them. Sow Asparagus. Lastly,</p>
<p class='c012'>Half open your passages for the Bees, or a little
before (if weather invite); but continue to feed weak
Stocks, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Kentish, Kirton, Russet, Holland Pepins; Deuxans,
Winter Queening, Harvey, Pome-water, Pomeroy,
Golden Doucet, Reineting, Loues Pearmain, Winter
Pearmain, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Bon-crestien of Winter, Winter Poppering, Little
Dagobert, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>FEBRUARY.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Continue Vermine Trapps, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow Alaternus seeds in Cases, or open beds; cover
them with thorns, that the Poultry scratch them not
out.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now and then air your Carnations, in warm days
especially, and mild showers.</p>
<p class='c012'>Furnish (now towards the end) your Aviarys with
Birds before they couple, etc.</p>
<div id='o112' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_112.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>APPLE TREES.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Winter Aconite, single Anemonies, and some double,
Tulips praecoce, Vernal Crocus, Black Hellebore, single
Hepatica, Persian Iris, Leucoium, Dens Caninus,
three leav’d, Vernal Cyclamen, white and red. Yellow
Violets with large leaves, early Daffodils, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>
<h2 class='c006'>MARCH.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Yet Stercoration is seasonable, and you may plant
what trees are left, though it be something of the latest,
unless in very backward or moist places.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now is your chiefest and best time for raising on the
Hot-bed Melons, Cucumbers, Gourds, etc., which about
the sixth, eighth or tenth day will be ready for the
seeds; and eight days after prick them forth at distances,
according to the method, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>If you have them later, begin again in ten or twelve
days after the first, and so a third time, to make Experiments.</p>
<p class='c012'>Graff all this Moneth, unless the Spring prove extraordinary
forwards.</p>
<p class='c012'>You may as yet cut Quick-sets, and cover such Tree-roots
as you laid bare in Autumn.</p>
<p class='c012'>Slip and set Sage, Rosemary, Lavender, Thyme, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow in the beginning Endive, Succory, Leeks, Radish,
Beets, Chard-Beet, Scorzonera, Parsnips, Skirrets,
Parsley, Sorrel, Buglos, Borrage, Chevril, Sellery,
Smalladge, Alisanders, etc. Several of which continue
many years without renewing, and are most of
them to be blanch’d by laying them under litter and
earthing up.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow also Lettuce, Onions, Garlick, Okach, Parslan,
Turneps (to have early) monethly, Pease, etc. these
annually.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>Transplant the Beet-chard which you sow’d in August
to have most ample Chards. Sow also Carrots, Cabbages,
Cresses, Fennel, Marjoram, Basil, Tobacco, etc.
And transplant any sort of Medicinal Hearbs.</p>
<p class='c012'>Mid-March dress up and string your Strawberry-beds,
and uncover your Asparagus, spreading and loosening
the Mould about them, for their more easy penetrating.
Also you may transplant Asparagus roots to make new
Beds.</p>
<p class='c012'>By this time your Bees sit; keep them close Night
and Morning, if the weather prove ill. Turn your
Fruit in the Room where it lies, but open not yet the
windows.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Golden Duchess (Doucet), Pepins, Reineting, Loues
Pearmain, Winter Pearmain, John-Apple, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Later Bon-crestien, Double Blossom Pear, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>MARCH.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Stake and binde up your weakest Plants and Flowers
against the Windes, before they come too fiercely, and in
a moment prostrate a whole year’s labour.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant Box, etc, in Parterres. Sow Pinks, Sweet
Williams, and Carnations, from the middle to the end of
this Moneth. Sow Pine kernels, Firr-seeds, Bays, Alatirnus,
Phillyrea, and most perennial Greens, etc. Or
you may stay till somewhat later in the Moneth. Sow
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>Auricula seeds in pots or cases, in fine willow earth, a
little loamy; and place what you sow’d in October now
in the shade and water it.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant some Anemony roots to bear late, and successively:
especially in, and about London, where the
Smoak is anything tolerable; and if the Season be very
dry, water them well once in two or three days. Fibrous
roots may be transplanted about the middle of this
Moneth; such as Hepatica’s, Primeroses, Auricula’s,
Camomile, Hyacinth, Tuberose, Matricaria, Hellebor,
and other Summer Flowers; and towards the end Convolvulus,
Spanish or ordinary Jasmine.</p>
<p class='c012'>Towards the middle or latter end of March sow on the
Hot-bed such Plants as are late-bearing Flowers or
Fruit in our Climate; as Balsamine, and Balsamummas,
Pomum Onions, Datura, Aethispic Apples, some choice
Amaranthmus, Dactyls, Geraniums, Hedysarum Clipeatum,
Humble, and Sensitive Plants, Lenticus, Myrtleberries
(steep’d awhile), Capsicum Indicum, Canna
Indica, Flos Africanus, Mirabile Peruvian, Nasturtium
Ind., Indian Phaseoli, Volubilis, Myrrh, Carrots, Manacoe,
fine flos Passionis and the like rare and exotic
plants which are brought us from hot countries.</p>
<p class='c012'>Note.—That the Nasturtium Ind., African Marygolds,
Volubilis and some others, will come (though not
altogether so forwards) in the Cold-bed without Art.
But the rest require much and constant heat, and
therefore several Hot-beds, till the common earth be very
warm by the advance of the Sun, to bring them to a due
stature, and perfect their Seeds.</p>
<p class='c012'>About the expiration of this Moneth carry into the
shade such Auriculas, Seedlings or Plants as are for their
choiceness reserv’d in Pots.</p>
<p class='c012'>Transplant also Carnation seedlings, giving your layers
fresh earth, and setting them in the shade for a week,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>then likewise cut off all the sick and infected
leaves.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now do the farewell-frosts, and Easterly-winds
prejudice your choicest Tulips, and spot them; therefore
cover such with Mats or Canvass to prevent freckles, and
sometimes destruction. The same care have of your
most precious Anemonies, Auricula’s, Chamae-iris, Brumal
Jacynths, Early Cyclamen, etc. Wrap your shorn
Cypress Tops with Straw wisps, if the Eastern blasts prove
very tedious. About the end uncover some Plants, but
with Caution; for the tail of the Frosts yet continuing,
and sharp winds, with the sudden darting heat of the
Sun, scorch and destroy them in a moment; and in such
weather neither sow nor transplant.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow Stock-gilly-flower seeds in the Fall to produce
double flowers.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now may you set your Oranges, Lemons, Myrtils,
Oleanders, Lentises, Dates, Aloes, Amonumus, and like
tender trees and Plants in the Portico, or with the windows
and doors of the Green-houses and Conservatories
open for eight or ten days before April, or earlier, if the
Season invite, to acquaint them gradually with the Air;
but trust not the Nights, unless the weather be thoroughly
settled.</p>
<p class='c012'>Lastly, bring in materials for the Birds in the Aviary
to build their nests withal.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Anemonies, Spring Cyclamen, Winter Aconite, Crocus,
Bellis, white and black Hellebor, single and double
Hepatica, Leucoion, Chamae-iris of all colours, Dens
Caninus, Violets, Fritillaria, Chelidonium, small with
double Flower, Hermodactyls, Tuberous Iris, Hyacinth,
Zenboin, Brumal, Oriental, etc. Junquils, great
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>Chalic’d, Dutch Mezereon, Persian Iris, Curialas, Narcissus
with large tufts, common, double, and single, Prime
Roses, Praecoce Tulips, Spanish Trumpets or Junquilles;
Violets, yellow Dutch Violets, Crown Imperial, Grape
Flowers, Almonds and Peach-blossoms, Rubus odoratus,
Arbour Judae, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>
<h2 class='c006'>APRIL.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Sow Sweet Marjoram, Hyssop, Basile, Thyme, Winter-Savoury,
Scurvey-grass, and all fine and tender Seeds
that require the Hot-bed.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow also Lettuce, Purslan, Caully-flower, Radish, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant Artichoke-slips, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Set French-beans, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>You may yet slip Lavender, Thyme, Rose-mary, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Towards the middle of this moneth begin to plant forth
your Melons and Cucumbers, and to the late end; your
Ridges well prepared.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather up Worms and Snails, after evening showers,
continue this also after all Summer rains.</p>
<p class='c012'>Open now your Bee-hives, for now they hatch; look
carefully to them, and prepare your Hives, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, and Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Pepins, Deuxans, West-berry Apples, Russeting,
Gilly-flowers, flat Reinet, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Late Bon-crestien, Oak-pear, etc., double Blossom,
etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>APRIL.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Sow divers Annuals to have Flowers all the Summer;
as double Mari-golds, Cyanus of all sorts, Candy-tufts,
Garden-Pansy, Muscipula, Scabious, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Continue new, and fresh Hot-beds to entertain such
exotic plants as arrive not to their perfection without
them, till the Air and common earth be qualified with
sufficient warmth to preserve them abroad. A Catalogue
of these you have in the former Moneth.</p>
<p class='c012'>Transplant such Fibrous roots as you had not finished
in March; as Violets, Hepatica, Prim-roses, Hellebor,
Matricaria, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow Pinks, Carnations, Sweet-Williams, etc., to
flower next year; this after rain.</p>
<p class='c012'>Set Lupines, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow also yet Pine-kernels, Firr-seeds, Phillyrea, Alaternus,
and most perennial greens.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now take out your Indian Tuberoses, parting the offsets
(but with care, lest you break their fangs), then pot
them in natural (not forc’d) Earth; a layer of rich mould
beneath, and about this natural earth to nourish the
fibers, but not so as to touch the Bulbs; then plunge your
pots in a Hot-bed temperately warm, and give them no
water till they spring, and then set them under a South-wall.
In dry weather water them freely, and expect an
incomparable flower in August. Thus likewise treat the
Narcissus of Japan, or Garnsey-Lilly, for a late flower,
and make much of this precious Direction.</p>
<div id='o121' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_121.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>DAFFODILS IN A MIDDLESEX GARDEN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Water Anemonies, Ranunculus’s, and Plants in Pots
and Cases once in two or three days, if drouth require it.
But carefully protect from violent Storms of Rain and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>Hail, and the too parching darts of the Sun, your Pennach’d
Tulips, Ranunculus’s, Anemonies, Auricula’s,
covering them with Mattresses supported on cradles of
hoops, which have now in readiness.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now is the season for you to bring the choice and
tender shrubs, etc., out of the Conservatory; such as
you durst not adventure forth in March. Let it be in a
fair day; only your Orange-trees may remain in the
house till May, to prevent all danger.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now, towards the end of April, you may Transplant
and Remove your tender shrubs, etc., as Spanish Jasmines,
Myrtils, Oleanders, young Oranges, Cyclamen,
Pomegranats, etc., but first let them begin to sprout;
placing them a fort-night in the shade; but about London
it may be better to defer this work till August, vide
also May. Prune now your Spanish Jasmine within an
inch or two of the stock; but first see it begin to shoot.
Mow Carpet-walks, and ply Weeding, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Towards the end (if the cold winds are past) and
especially after showers, clip Philyrea, Alaternus, Cypress,
Box, Myrtils, Barba Jovis, and other tonsile
shrubs, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Anemonies, Ranunculus’s, Auriculalirri, Chamae-Iris,
Crown Imperial, Caprisolium, Cyclamen, Dens Caninus,
Fritillaria, double Hepaticas, Jacynth starry, double
Daisies, Florence-Iris, tufted Narcissus, white, double
and common, English Double, Prime-rose, Cow-slips,
Pulsatilla, Ladies-Smock, Tulips Medias, Ranunculus’s
of Tripoly, white Violets, Musk, Grape-flower, Parietaria
Lutea, Leucoium, Lillies, Paeonies, double Jonquils,
Muscaria revers’d, Cochlearia, Periclymenum, Aicanthus,
Lilac, Rose-mary, Cherries, Wall-pears, Almonds,
Abricots, White-Thorn, Arbour Judae blossoming, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>
<h2 class='c006'>MAY.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Sow Sweet-Marjoram, Basil, Thyme, hot and Aromatic
Herbs, and Plants which are the most tender.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow Parslan, to have young; Lettuce, large-sided
Cabbage, painted Beans, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Look carefully to your Mellons; and towards the end of
this moneth, forbear to cover them any longer on the
Ridges, either with straw or mattresses, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Ply the Laboratory, and distill Plants for Waters,
Spirits, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Continue Weeding before they run to Seeds.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now set your Bees at full Liberty, look out often,
and expect Swarms, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Pepins, Deuxans or John-Apples, West-berry-apples,
Russeting, Gilly-flower Apples, the Maligan, etc., Codling.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Great Kainville, Winter-Bon-cretienne, Double Blossom-pear,
etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>CHERRIES, ETC.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The May-Cherry, Straw-berries, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>MAY.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Now bring your Oranges, etc., boldly out of the Conservatory;
’tis your only Season to Transplant, and Remove
them; let the Cases be fill’d with natural-earth
(such as is taken the first half spit, from just under the
Turf of the best Pasture ground), mixing it with one part
of rotten Cow-dung, or very mellow Soil screen’d and
prepar’d some time before; if this be too stiff, sift a
little Lime discreetly with it. Then cutting the Roots a
little, especially at bottom, set your Plant; but not too
deep; rather let some of the Roots appear. Lastly,
settle it with temperate water (not too much) having put
some rubbish of Brick-bats, Lime-stones, Shells, or the like
at the bottom of the Cases, to make the moisture passage,
and keep the earth loose. Then set them in the shade
for a fort-night, and afterwards expose them to the Sun.</p>
<p class='c012'>Give now also all your hous’d-plants fresh earth at the
surface, in place of some of the old earth (a hand-depth
or so) and loos’ning the rest with a fork without wounding
the Roots. Let this be of excellent rich soil, such as
is thoroughly consumed and with sift, that it may wash
in the vertue, and comfort the Plant. Brush, and
cleanse them likewise from the dust contracted during
their Enclosure. These two last directions have till
now been kept as considerable secrets amongst our
gard’ners; vide August and September.</p>
<p class='c012'>Shade your Carnations and Gilly-flowers after midday
about this season. Plant also your Stock Gilly-flowers
in beds, full Moon.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather what Anemony-seed you find ripe, and that is
worth saving, preserving it very dry.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>Cut likewise the stalks of such Bulbous-flowers as you
find dry.</p>
<p class='c012'>Towards the end, take up those Tulips which are dried
in the stalk; covering what you find to be bare from the
Sun and showers.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Late set Anemonies and Ranunculus nom. gen.
Anapodophylon, Chamae-iris, Angustifol, Cyanus, Columbines,
Caltha Palustris, double Cotyledon, Digitalis,
Fraxinella, Gladiolus, Geranium, Horminum Creticum,
yellow Hemerocallis, strip’d Jacynth, early Bulbous
Iris, Asphodel, Yellow Lilies, Lychnis, Jacca, Bellis
double, white and red, Millefolium Liteum, Lilium Convalium,
Span. Pinkes, Deptford-pinke, Rosa common,
Cinnamon, Guelder and Centifol, etc. Syringa’s,
Sedunis, Tulips, Serotin, etc. Valerian, Veronica double
and single, Musk Violets, Ladies Slipper, Stock-gilly-flowers,
Spanish Nut, Star-flower, Chalcedons, ordinary
Crow-foot, red Martagon, Bee-flowers, Campanula’s
white and bleu, Persian Lilly, Honey-suckles, Buglosse,
Homers Moly, and the white of Dioscorides, Pansys,
Prunella, purple Thalictrum, Sisymbrium, double and
single, Leucoium bulbosum serstinum, Rose-mary
Stacchas, Barba Jovis, Laurus, Satyrion, Oxyacanthus,
Tamariscus, Apple-blossoms, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>
<h2 class='c006'>JUNE.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Sow Lettuce, Chevril, Radish, etc., to have young
and tender Salleting.</p>
<p class='c012'>About the midst of June you may inoculate Peaches
Abricots, Cherries, Plums, Apples, Pears, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>You may now also (or before) cleanse Vines of exuberant
branches and tendrils, cropping (not cutting) and stopping
the joynt immediately before the Blossoms, and
some of the under branches which bear no fruit; especially
in young Vineyards when they first begin to bear,
and thence forwards.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather Herbs in the Fall, to keep dry; they keep and
retain their virtue, and smell sweet, better dry’d in the
shade than in the Sun, whatever some pretend.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now is your season to distill Aromatic Plants, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Water lately planted Trees, and put moist and half-rotten
Fearn, etc, about the pot of their Stems.</p>
<p class='c012'>Look to your Bees for Swarms, and Casts; and begin
to destroy Insects with Hooses, Canes, and tempting
baits, etc. Gather Snails after rain, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Juniting (first ripe), Pepins, John-apples, Robillard,
Red-Fennouil, etc., French.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>The Maudlin (first ripe), Madera, Green-Royal, St.
Laurence Pear, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>CHERRIES, ETC.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<table class='table4' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='76%' />
<col width='23%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c003'> </td>
<td class='c004'>Black.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'>Duke, Flanders, Heart</td>
<td class='c004'>Red.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c003'> </td>
<td class='c004'>White.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class='c012'>Luke-ward, early Flanders, the Common-cherry,
Spanish-black, Naples-Cherries, etc. Rasberries,
Corinths, Straw-berries, Melons, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>JUNE.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Transplant Autumnal Cyclamens now if you would
change their place, otherwise let them stand.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather ripe seeds of Flowers worth the saving, as of
choicest Oriental Jacynth, Narcissus (the two lesser, pale
spurious Daffodels of a whitish green often produce
varieties), Auriculas, Ranunculus’s, etc., and preserve
them dry. Shade your Carnations from the afternoons
Sun. Take up your rarest Anemonies, and Ranunculus’s
after rain (if it come seasonable) the stalk wither’d, and
dry the roots well. This about the end of the moneth.
In mid June inoculate Jasmine, Roses, and some other
rare shrubs. Sow now also some Anemony seeds. Take up
your Tulip-bulbs, burying such immediately as you find
naked upon your beds; or else plant them in some cooler
place; and refresh over parched beds with water. Plant
your Narcissus of Japan (that rare flower) in Pots, etc.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>Also you may now take up all such Plants and Flower-roots
as endure not well out of the ground, and replant
them again immediately: such as the Early Cyclamen,
Jacynth Oriental, and other bulbous Jacynths, Iris,
Fritillaria, Crown-Imperial, Martagon, Muscario, Dens
Caninus, etc. The slips of Myrtil set in some cool and
moist place do now frequently take root. Also Cytisus
lunatus will be multiplied by slips, such as are an handful
long that Spring. Look now to your Aviary; for
now the Birds grow sick of their feathers; therefore
assist them with Emulsions of the cooler seeds bruised
water, as Melons, Cucumbers, etc. Also give them
Succory, Beets, Groundsel, Chickweed, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Amaranthus, Antirrhinum, Campanula, Clematis
Pannonica, Cyanus, Digitalis, Geranium, Horminum
Creticum, Hieracium, bulbous Iris, and divers others,
Lychnis, var. generum, Martagon white and red, Millefolium,
white and yellow, Nasturtium Indicum, Carnations,
Pinks, Ornithogalum, Pansy, Phalangium Virginianum,
darks-heel early. Pilosella, Roses, Thalaspi Creticum,
etc. Veronica, Viola pentaphyl, Campions or
Sultans, Mountain Lilies white and red; double Poppies,
Stock-jelly flowers, Jasmines, Corn-flag, Hollyhoc,
Muscaria, serpyllum Citratum, Phalangium Allobrogicum,
Oranges, Rose-mary, Leuticus, Pome-Granade,
the Lime-tree, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>
<h2 class='c006'>JULY.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Sow Lettuce, Radish, etc., to have tender salleting.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow later Pease to be ripe six weeks after Michaelmas.</p>
<p class='c012'>Water young planted Trees, and Layers, etc., and
prune now Abricots, and Peaches, saving as many of the
young likeliest shoots as are well placed; for the new
Bearers commonly perish, the new ones succeeding:
Cut close and even.</p>
<p class='c012'>Let such Olitory-herbs run to seed as you would
save.</p>
<p class='c012'>Towards the later end, visit your Vineyards again,
etc., and stop the exuberant shoots at the second joint
above the fruit; but not so as to expose it to the
Sun.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now begin to straighten the entrance of your Bees a
little; and help them to kill their Drones if you observe
too many; setting Glasses of Beer mingled with Hony
to entice the Wasps, Flyes, etc., which waste your store:
also hang Bottles of the same Mixture near your Red-Roman
Nectarines, and other tempting fruits for their
destruction; else they many times invade your best
Fruit.</p>
<p class='c012'>Look now also diligently under the leaves of Mural-Trees
for the Snails; they stick commonly somewhat
above the fruit: pull not off what is bitten; for then
they will certainly begin afresh.</p>
<div id='o128' class='figcenter id008'>
<img src='images/opp_128.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A POET’S ORCHARD IN KENT.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Deuxans, Pepins, Winter-Russeting, Andrew-apples,
Cinnamon-apple, red and white Juiniting, the Margaret-apple,
etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The Primat, Russet-pears, Summer-pears, green
Chesil-pears, Pearl-pear, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>CHERRIES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Carnations, Morella, Great-bearer, Morocco-cherry,
the Egriot, Bigarreaux, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEACHES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Nutmeg, Isabella, Persian, Newington, Violet-muscat,
Rambouillet.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PLUMS, ETC.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Primordial, Myrobalan, the red, bleu, and amber
Violet, Damax, Deuny Damax, Pear-plum, Damax,
Violet or Cheson-plum, Abricot-plum, Cinnamon-plum,
the Kings-plum, Spanish, Morocco-plum, Lady Eliz.
Plum, Tawny, Damascene, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Rasberries, Goose-berries, Corinths, Straw-berries,
Melons, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>JULY.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Slip Stocks and other lignous Plants and Flowers:
From henceforth to Michaelmas you may also lay Gilly-flowers
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>and Carnations for Increase, leaving not above
two, or three spindles for flowers, with supports, cradles,
and hooses, to establish them against winds, and destroy
Earwigs.</p>
<p class='c012'>The Layers will (in a moneth or six weeks) strike
root, being planted in a light loamy earth mix’d with
excellent rotten soil and seifted: plant six or eight
in a pot to save room in Winter: keep them well from
too much Rains: but shade those which blow from the
afternoons Sun, as in the former Moneths.</p>
<p class='c012'>Yet also you may lay Myrtils, and other curious
Greens.</p>
<p class='c012'>Water young planted Shrubs and Layers, etc., as
Orange-trees, Myrtils, Granades, Amomum, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Clip Box, etc., in Parterres, knots, and Compartiments,
if need be, and that it grow out of order; do
it after Rain.</p>
<p class='c012'>Graff by Approach, Trench, or Innoculate Jasmines,
Oranges, and your other choicest shrubs. Take up your
early autumnal Cyclamen, Tulips and Bulbs (if you will
Remove them, etc.) before mention’d; Transplanting
them immediately, or a Moneth after if you please,
and then cutting off, and trimming the fibres, spread
them to Air in some dry place.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather now also your early Cyclamen-seeds, and sow
it presently in Pots.</p>
<p class='c012'>Likewise you may now take up some Anemonies,
Ranunculus’s, Crocus, Crown Imperial, Persian Iris,
Fritillaria, and Colchicums, but plant the three last as
soon as you have taken them up, as you did the Cyclamens.</p>
<p class='c012'>Remove now your Dens Canivus, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Latter end of July seift your Beds for Off-sets of
Tulips, and all Bulbous-roots, also for Anemonies—Ranunculus’s,
etc, which will prepare it for replanting with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>such things as you have ready in pots to plunge, or
set in naked earth till the next season; as Amaranths,
Canna Ind., Mirabile Peruv., Capsicum Ind., Nasturt.
Ind., etc., that they may not be empty and disfurnished.</p>
<p class='c012'>Continue to cut off the wither’d stalks of your lower
flowers, etc., and all others, covering with earth the
bared roots, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now (in the driest season) with Brine, Pot-ashes,
and water, or a decoction of Tobacco refuse, water your
gravel-walks, etc., to destroy both worms and weeds, of
which it will cure them for some years.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Amanauthus, Campanula, Clematis, Sultana, Veronica
purple and odoriferous; Digitalis, Eryugium, Planum,
Ind. Phaseolus, Geranium triste, and Creticum, Lychnis
Chalcaedon Jacea white and double, Nasturt. Ind. Multefolium,
Musk-rose, Flos Africanus, Thlaspi Creticum, etc.
Veronica mag. and parva, Volubilis, Balsam-apple, Hollyhock,
Snapdragon, Cornflo, Alkekengi, Lupius, Scorpion-grass,
Caryophlata om. gen. Stock-gilly-flo, Indian
Tuberous Jacynth, Limonium, Linaria Cretica, Pansies,
Prunella, Delphinium, Phalangium, Perploca Virgin,
Flos Passionis, Flos Cardinalis, Oranges, Amomum
Plinii, Oleanders red and white, Agnus Castus, Arbutus,
Yucca, Olive, Lignateum, Tilia, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>
<h2 class='c006'>AUGUST.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Inoculate now early, if before you began not.</p>
<p class='c012'>Prune off yet also superfluous Branches, and shoots
of this second spring; but be careful not to expose
the fruit, without leaves sufficient to skreen it from
the Sun, furnishing, and nailing up what you will spare
to cover the defects of your Walls. Pull up the suckers.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow Raddish, tender Cabages, Cauly-flowers for
Winter Plants, Corn-sallet, Marygolds, Lettuce, Carrots,
Parnseps, Turneps, Spinage, Onions; also curl’d Endive,
Angelica, Scurvy-grass, etc. Likewise now pull up
ripe Onions and Garlic, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Towards the end sow Purslan, Chard-Beet, Chervile,
etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Transplant such Letuce as you will have abide all
Winter.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather your Olitory-Seeds, and clip and cut all such
Herbs and Plants within a handful of the ground before
the fall. Lastley:</p>
<p class='c012'>Unbind and release the buds you inoculated if taken,
etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now vindemiate and take your Bees towards the expiration
of this Moneth; unless you see cause (by reason
of the Weather and Season) to defer it till mid-September:
But if your Stocks be very light and weak begin the
earlier.</p>
<p class='c012'>Make your Summer Perry and Cider.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The Ladies Longing, the Kirkham Apple, John Apple;
the Seaming Apple, Cushion Apple, Spicing, May-flower,
Sheeps-snout.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Windsor, Soveraign, Orange, Bergamot, Slipper Pearl,
Red Catherine, King Catherine, Denny Pear, Prussia
Pear, Summer Poppering, Sugar Pear, Lording Pea,
etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEACHES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Roman Peach, Man Peach, Quince Peach, Rambouillet,
Musk Peach, Grand Carnation, Portugal
Peach, Crown Peach, Bourdeaux Peach, Lavar Peach,
the Peach de-lepot, Savoy Malacoton, which lasts till
Michaelmas, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>NECTARINES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The Muroy Nectarine, Tawny, Red-Roman, little
Green Nectarine, Chester Nectarine, Yellow Nectarine.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PLUMS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Imperial, Bleu, White Dates, Yellow Pear-plum,
Black Pear-plum, White Nut-meg, late Pear-plum,
Great Anthony, Turkey Plum, the Jane Plum.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>OTHER FRUIT.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Cluster Grape, Muscadine, Corinths, Cornelians, Mulberries,
Figs, Filberts, Melons, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>AUGUST.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Now (and not till now if you expect success) is the
just Season for the budding of the Orange Tree: Inoculate
therefore at the commencement of this Moneth.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now likewise take up your bulbous Iris’s; or you
may sow their seeds, as also those of Larks-heel, Candy-tufts,
Iron-colour’d Fox-gloves, Holly-hocks, and such
plants as Endive Winter, and the approaching Seasons.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant some Anemony roots to have flowers all Winter,
if the roots escape.</p>
<p class='c012'>You may now sow Narcissus, and Oriental Jacynths,
and replant such as will not do well out of the Earth,
as Fritillaria, Iris, Hyacinths, Martagon, Dens Canivus.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gilly-flowers may yet be slipp’d.</p>
<p class='c012'>Continue your taking of Bulbs, Lilies, etc., of which
before.</p>
<p class='c012'>Gather from day to day your Alaternus seed as it
grows black and ripe, and spread it to sweat and dry
before you put it up; therefore move it sometimes with
a broom that the seeds may not clog together.</p>
<p class='c012'>Most other seeds may now likewise be gathered from
Shrubs, which you find ripe.</p>
<p class='c012'>About mid-Aug. transplant Auricula’s, dividing old
and lusty roots; also prick out your Seedlings: They
best like a loamy sand or light moist Earth.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now you may sow Anemony seeds, Ranunculus’s,
etc., lightly covered with fit mould in Cases, shaded,
and frequently refresh’d: Also Cyclamen, Jacynths,
Iris, Hepatica, Primroses, Fritillaria, Martagon, Fraxinella,
Tulips, etc., but with patience; for some of them
because they flower not till three, four, five, six or seven
<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>years after, especially the Tulips, therefore disturb
not their beds, and let them be under some warm place
shaded yet, till the heats are past, lest the seeds dry;
only the Hepaticas, and Primeroses may be sow’d in
some less expos’d Beds.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now, about Bartholomew-tide, is the only secure
season for removing and laying your perenial Greens,
Oranges, Lemmons, Myrtils, Phillyreas, Oleanders,
Jasmines, Arbutus, and other rare Shrubs, as Pome-granads,
Roses, and whatever is most obnoxious to
frosts, taking the shoots and branches of the past Spring
and pegging them down in a very rich earth and soil
perfectly consum’d, water them upon all occasions
during the Summer; and by this time twelve-moneth
they will be ready to remove, Transplanted in fit earth,
set in the shade, and kept moderately moist, not over
wet, lest the young fibers rot; after three weeks set
them in some more airy place, but not in the Sun till
fifteen days more; vide our Observation in April, and
May, for the rest of these choice Directions.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Amaranthus, Anagallis Lusitanica, Aster Atticus,
Blattaria, Spanish Bells, Bellevedere, Campanula,
Clematis, Cyclamen Vernum, Datura Turtica, Eliochryson,
Eryngium planum, Amethystium, Geranium
Creticum and Triste, Yellow Stocks, Hieracion minus
Alpestre, Tube-rose Hyacinth, Limonium, Linaria
Cretica, Lychnis, Nimabile Peruvian, Yellow Millefoil,
Nasturt: Ind. Yellow mountain Hearts-ease,
Manacoc, Africanus Flos, Convolvulus’s, Scabious,
Asphodels, Lupines, Colchicum, Lencoion, Autumnal
Hyacinth, Holly-hoc, Star-wort, Heliotrop, French
Mary-gold, Daisies, Geranium nocte oleus, Common
<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>Pansies, Larks-heels of all colours, Nigella, Lobello,
Catch-fly, Thalaspi Creticum, Rosemary, Musk-rose,
Monethly Rose, Oleanders, Spanish Jasmine, Yellow
Indian Jasmine, Myrtils, Oranges, Pome-granads double
and single flowers, Agnus Cactus, etc.</p>
<div id='o137' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_137.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A KENTISH GARDEN IN AUTUMN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>
<h2 class='c006'>SEPTEMBER.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Gather now (if ripe) your Winter Fruits, as Apples,
Pears, Plums, etc., to prevent their falling by the great
Winds: Also gather your Wind-falls from day to day;
do this work in dry weather.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow Lettuce, Radish, Spinage, Parsneps, Skirrets, etc.
Cauly-flowers, Cabbage, Onions, etc. Scurvy-grass,
Anis-seeds, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now you may Transplant most sorts of Esculent, or
Physical plants, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Also Artichocks, and Asparagus-roots.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow also Winter Herbs and Roots, and plant Strawberries
out of the Woods.</p>
<p class='c012'>Towards the end, earth up your Winter plants and
Sallad herbs; and plant forth your Cauly-flowers and
Cabbages which were sown in August.</p>
<p class='c012'>No longer now defer the taking of your Bees, streightening
the entrances of such Hives as you leave to a small
passage, and continue still your hostility against Wasps,
and other robbing Insects.</p>
<p class='c012'>Cider-making continues.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The Belle-bonne, the William, Summer Pearmain,
Lordling-apple, Pear-apple, Quince-apple, Red-greening
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>ribbed, Bloody-Pepin, Harvey, Violet-apple,
etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Hamdens, Bergamot (first ripe), Summer Bon-crestien,
Norwich, Black Worcester (baking), Green-field,
Orange, Bergamot, the Queen hedge-pear, Lewes-pear
(to dry excellent), Frith-pear, Arundel-pear (also to
bake), Brunswick-pear, Winter Poppering, Bings-pear,
Bishops-pear (baking), Diego, Emperours-pear, Cluster-pear,
Messire Jean, Rowling-pear, Balsam-pear, Bezy
d’Hery, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEACHES, ETC.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Malacoton, and some others, if the year prove backwards,
almonds, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Quinces.</p>
<p class='c012'>Little Bleu-grape, Muscadine-grape, Frontiniac, Parsley,
great Bleu-grape, the Verjuyce-grape, excellent
for sauce, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Bexberries, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>SEPTEMBER.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Plant some of all the sorts of Anemonies after the
first rains, if you will have flowers very forwards; but
it is surer to attend till October, or the Moneth after,
lest the over moisture of the Autumnal seasons give you
cause to repent.</p>
<p class='c012'>Begin now also to plant some Tulips, unless you
will stay until the later end of October, to prevent all
hazard of rotting the Bulbs.</p>
<p class='c012'>All Fibrous Plants, such as Hepatica, Hellebor,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>Cammomile, etc. Also the Capillaries; Matricaria,
Violets, Prim-roses, etc., may now be transplanted.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now you may also continue to grow Alaternus,
Philyrea (or you may forbear till the Spring), Iris, Crown
Imper; Martagon, Tulips, Delphinium, Nigella, Candy-tufts,
Poppy; and generally all the Annuals which are
not impair’d by the Frosts.</p>
<p class='c012'>Your Tuberoses will not endure the wet of this Season;
therefore set the Pots into your Conserve, and keep
them very dry.</p>
<p class='c012'>Bind up now your Autumnal Flowers, and Plants to
stakes, to prevent sudden gusts which will else prostrate
all you have so industriously rais’d.</p>
<p class='c012'>About Michaelmas (sooner, or later, as the Season
directs) the weather fair, and by no means foggy, retire
your choice Greens, and rarest Plants (being dry) as
Oranges, Lemmons, Indian and Span. Jasmine, Oleanders,
Barba-Jovis, Amomum Plin. Citysus Lunatus, Chamalaca
tricoccos, Cistus Ledon Clussii, Dates, Aloes,
Seduns, etc., into your Conservatory; ordering them
with fresh mould, as you were taught in May, viz.
taking away some of the utmost exhausted earth, and
stirring up the rest, fill the Cases with rich, and well
consumed soil, to wash in, and nourish the roots during
Winter; but as yet leaving the doors and windows
open, and giving them much Air, so the Winds be not
sharp, nor weather foggy; do thus till the cold being
more intense advertise you to enclose them altogether:
Myrtils will endure abroad neer a Moneth longer.</p>
<p class='c012'>The cold now advancing, set such plants as will not
endure the House into the earth; the pots two or three
inches lower than the surface of some bed under a
Southern exposure: then cover them with glasses,
having cloath’d them first with sweet and dry Moss;
but upon all warm, and benigne emissions of the Sun
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>and sweet showers, giving them air, by taking off all
that covers them: Thus you shall preserve all your
costly and precious Marum Syriacum, Cistus’s, Geranium
nocte olens, Flos Cardinalis, Maracoco, seedling Arbutus’s
(a very hardy plant when greater), choicest Ranunculus’s,
and Anemonies, Acacia Aegypt, etc. Thus
governing them till April.</p>
<p class='c012'>Secrets not till now divulg’d.</p>
<p class='c012'>Note that Cats will eat, and destroy your Marum
Syriac, if they can come at it.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Amaranthus tricolor, and others; Anagallis of Portugal,
Antirrhinum, African flo. Amomum, Plinii,
Aster Atticus, Belvedere, Bellies, Campanula’s, Colchicum,
Autumnal Cyclamen, Chrysanthemum angustifol,
Eupatorium of Canada, Sun-flower, Stock-gill-flo.
Geranium Creticum and nocte olens, Gentianella
annual, Hieracion minus Alpestre, Tuberous Indian
Jacynth, Linaria Cretica, Lychnis Constant. single and
double; Limonium, Indian Lilly Narciss. Pomum
Aureum, and Amoris, etc., Spinosum Ind. Marvel of
Peru, Mille-folium, yellow, Nasturtium Indicum, Persian
Autumnal Narcissus, Virgianium Phalagium, Indian
Phaseolus, Scarlet Beans, Convolvulus divers. gen., Candy
Tufts, Veronica, purple Volubilis, Asphodil, Crocus,
Garnsey Lily, or Narcissus of Japan, Poppy of all
colours, single and double, Malva arborescens, Indian
Pinks, Aethiopic Apples, Capsicum Ind. Gilly-flowers,
Passion-flower, Dature double and single, Portugal
Ranunculus’s, Spanish Jasmine, yellow Virginian Jasmine,
Rhododendron, white and red, Oranges, Myrtils,
Muske Rose, and Monethly Rose, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>
<h2 class='c006'>OCTOBER.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Trench Grounds for Orcharding, and the Kitchin-garden,
to lye for a Winter mellowing.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant dry Trees (i) Fruit of all sorts, Standard, Mural
or Shrubs, which lose their lease; and that so soon as
it falls: But be sure you chuse no Trees for the Wall
of above two years Graffing at the most.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now is the time for Ablaqueation, and laying bare
the Roots of old unthriving, or over hasty blooming
trees.</p>
<p class='c012'>Moon now decreasing, gather Winter-fruit that remains,
weather dry; take heed of bruising; lay them up
clean lest they Taint, Cut and prune Roses yearly.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant and Plash Quick-sets.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow all stony, and hard kernels and seeds, such as
Cherry, Pear-plum, Peach, Almond-stones, etc. Also
Nuts, Haws, Ashen, Sycomor and Maple keys; Acorns,
Beech-mast, Apple, Pear and Crab Kernel, for Stocks;
or you may defer it till the next Moneth towards the
later end. You may yet sow Letuce.</p>
<p class='c012'>Make Winter Cider, and Perry.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, and Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Belle-et-Bonne, William, Costard, Lordling, Parsley-apples,
Pearmain, Pear-apple, Honey-meal, Apis, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The Caw-pear (baking), Green-butter-pear, Thorn-pear,
Clove-pear, Roussel-pear, Lombart-pear, Russet-pear,
Suffron-pear, and some of the former Moneth.</p>
<p class='c012'>Bullis, and divers of the September Plums and Grapes,
Pines, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>OCTOBER.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Now your Hyacinthus Tuberose not enduring the
wet, must be set into the house, and preserved very dry
till April.</p>
<p class='c012'>Continue sowing what you did in September, if you
please: Also,</p>
<p class='c012'>You may plant some Anemonies, and Ranunculus’s,
in fresh sandish earth, taken from under the turf; but
lay richer mould at the bottom of the bed, which
the fibres may reach, but not to touch the main roots,
which are to be covered with the natural earth two
inches deep: and so soon as they appear, secure
them with Mats, or Straw, from the winds and frosts,
giving them air in all benigne intervals; if possible
once a day.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant also Ranunculus’s of Tripoly, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant now your choice Tulips, etc., which you feared
to interre at the beginning of September; they will
be more secure and forward enough: but plant them
in natural earth somewhat impoverish’d with very
fine sand; else they will soon lose their variegations;
some more rich earth may lye at the bottom, within
reach of the fibres: Now have a care your Carnations
catch not too much wet; therefore retire them to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>covert, where they may be kept from the rain, not the
air, Trimming them with fresh mould.</p>
<p class='c012'>All sorts of Bulbous roots may now be safely buried;
likewise Iris’s, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>You may yet sow Alaternus, and Phillyrea seeds;
it will now be good to Beat, Roll, and Mow Carpet-walks,
and Camomile; for now the ground is supple,
and it will even all inequalities: Finish your last weeding,
etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sweep and cleanse your Walks, and all other places, of
Autumnal leaves fallen, lest the worms draw them into
their holes, and foul your Gardens, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Amaranthus tricolor, etc. Aster Atticus, Amomum,
Antirrhinum, Colchicum, Heliotrope, Stock-gilly-flo.,
Geranium triste, Ind. Tuberose Jacynth, Limonium,
Lychnis white and double, Pomum Amoris and Aethiop.,
Marvel of Peru, Millefol. luteum, Autumnal Narciss.,
Pansies, Aleppo Narciss., Sphaerical Narciss., Nasturt.,
Persicum, Gilly-flo., Virgin Phalangium, Pilosella,
Violets, Veronica, Arbutus, Span. Jasmine Oranges.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>
<h2 class='c006'>NOVEMBER.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Carry Comfort out of your Melon-ground, or turn and
mingle it with the earth, and lay it in ridges ready for
the Spring: Also trench and fit ground for Artichocks,
etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Continue your Setting and Transplanting of Trees;
lose no time, hard frosts come on apace; yet you may
lay bare old Roots.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant young Trees, Standards or Mural.</p>
<p class='c012'>Furnish your Nursery with Stocks to graff on the
following year.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow and set early Beans and Pease till Shrove-tide;
and now lay up in your Cellars for Seed, to be Transplanted
at Spring, Carrots, Parsneps, Turneps, Cabbages,
Cauly-flowers, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Cut off the tops of Asparagus, and cover it with long-dung,
or make Beds to plant in Spring, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now, in a dry day, gather your last Orchard-fruits.</p>
<p class='c012'>Take up your Potatoes for Winter spending, there
will be enough remain for stock, though never so exactly
gather’d.</p>
<div id='o144' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_144.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A HAMPSTEAD GARDEN IN WINTER.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The Belle-bonne, the William, Summer Pearmain,
Lordling-apple, Pear-apple, Cardinal, Winter Chessnut,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>Short-start, etc., and some others of the former two
last Moneths, etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Messire Jean, Lord-pear, long Bergamot, Warden
(to bake), Burnt Cat, Sugar-pear, Lady-pear, Ice-pear,
Dove-pear, Deadmans-pear, Winter Bergamot, Belle-pear,
etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Bullis, Medlars, Services.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>NOVEMBER.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Sow Auricula seeds thus: prepare very rich earth
more than half dung, upon that seift some very light
sandy mould; and then sow; set your Cases or Pans
in the Sun till March. Cover your peeping Ranunculus’s,
etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now is your best season (the weather open) to plant
your fairest Tulips in place of shelter, and under Espaliers;
but let not your earth be too rich, vide Octob.
Transplant ordinary Jasmine, etc. About the middle
of this Moneth (or sooner, if weather require) quite
enclose your tender Plants, and perennial Greens,
Shrubs, etc., in your Conservatory, secluding all entrance
of cold, and especially sharp winds; and if the
Plants become exceeding dry, and that it do not actually
freeze, refresh them sparingly with qualified water
mingled with a little sheeps or Cow-dung: If the Season
prove exceeding piercing (which you may know by
the freezing of a dish of water set for that purpose in
your Green-house) kindle some Charcoal, and then
put them in a hole sunk a little into the floor about the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>middle of it: This is the safest stove: at all other
times when the air is warmed by the beams of a fine
day, and that the Sun darts full upon the house shew
them the light; but enclose them again before the
sun be gone off: Note that you must never give your
Aloes, or Sedums one drop of water during the whole
Winter.</p>
<p class='c012'>Prepare also Mattresses, Boxes, Cases, Pots, etc.,
for shelter to your tender Plants and Seedlings newly
sown, if the weather prove very bitter.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant Roses, Althæa Frutex, Lilac, Syringas, Cytisus,
Peonies, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant also Fibrous roots, specified in the precedent
Moneth.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow also stony-seeds mentioned in Octob.</p>
<p class='c012'>Plant all Forest-trees for Walks, Avenues, and Groves.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sweep and cleanse your Garden-walks, and all other
places, of Autumnal leaves.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Anemonies, Meadow Saffron, Antirrhinum, Stock-gilly-flo.,
Bellis, Pansies, some Carnations, double Violets,
Veronica, Spanish Jasmine, Musk Rose, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>
<h2 class='c006'>DECEMBER.</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Orchard, and Olitory Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Prune, and Nail Wall-fruit, and Standard-trees.</p>
<p class='c012'>You may now plant Vines, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Also Stocks for Graffing, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow, as yet, Pomace of Cider-pressings to raise
Nurseries; and set all sorts of Kernels, Stones, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sow for early Beans, and Pease, but take heed of the
Frosts; therefore surest to defer it till after Christmas,
unless the Winter promise very moderate.</p>
<p class='c012'>All this Moneth you may continue to Trench Ground
and dung it, to be ready for Bordures, or the planting of
Fruit-trees, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now seed your weak Stocks.</p>
<p class='c012'>Turn and refresh your Autumnal Fruit, lest it taint
and open the Windows where it lyes, in a clear and
Serene day.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Fruits in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='fss'>APPLES.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Rousseting, Leather-coat, Winter-reed, Chest-nut
Apple, Great-belly, the Go-no-further, or Cats-head,
with some of the precedent Moneth.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='fss'>PEARS.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>The Squib-pear, Spindle-pear, Virgin, Gascoyne-Bergomot,
Scarlet-pear, Stopple-pear, white, red, and
French Wardens (to bake or roast), etc.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>DECEMBER.</div>
<div class='c000'><i>To be done</i></div>
<div class='c000'><span class='sc'>In the Parterre, and Flower Garden</span>.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>As in January, continue your hostility against Vermine.</p>
<p class='c012'>Preserve from too much Rain and Frost your choicest
Anemonies, Ranunculus’s, Carnations, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Be careful now to keep the Doors and Windows
of your Conservatories well matted, and guarded from
the piercing Air: for your Oranges, etc., are now put
to the test: Temper the cold with a few Char-coal
govern’d as directed in November, etc.</p>
<p class='c012'>Set Bay-berries, etc., dropping ripe.</p>
<p class='c012'>Look to your Fountain-pipes, and cover them with
fresh and warm litter out of the stable, a good thickness
lest the frosts crack them; remember it in time,
and the Advice will save far both trouble and charge.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div><span class='sc'>Flowers in Prime, or Yet Lasting.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Anemonies some, Persian, and Common Winter
Cyclamen, Antirrhinum, Black Hellebor, Laurus tinus,
single Prim-roses, Stock-gilly-flo., Iris Clusii, Snowflowers,
or drops, Yucca, etc.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c006'>PART IV<br /> <br />GARDEN MOODS</h2>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>
<h2 class='c006'>I<br /> <br />TOWN GARDENS</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Few people will deny the peace of mind a sheet of
green grass can give, but few people, one imagines,
trouble to think how they are preserved in large Towns
and Cities. If it were not for Societies many little open
spaces would years ago have been covered with streets of
houses, many fair trees have fallen, none have been
planted, and those growing have been neglected and
allowed to die. Of the many Societies whose work has
been to preserve for the Public pleasure grounds, good
trees, parks, and flower gardens, not one deserves
such praise as the Metropolitan Public Gardens
Association, whose great work has been carried on since
1882.</p>
<p class='c012'>When one considers that in Hampstead over six
hundred acres have been preserved by energetic Committees
from the hands of builders it is easy to see how
great is the debt of London to those who voluntarily
work for this and other Open Space Societies.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is not, however, by these large tracts of open
country that the towns and cities alone benefit.
Seats, fountains, flower beds, and pavements have been
placed in old church-yards and disused burial-grounds
opened for the benefit of the public. One has only to
look at the map of the Metropolitan Public Gardens
Association to see how wonderful their work has been
and still is.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>To dwellers in Towns the sight of flowers in the streets
is like a breath of the country. The long line of flower-sellers
in the High Street, Kensington, one group of
women in Piccadilly Circus, in Oxford Circus, in other
spots where the place of their flower baskets brightens
all the neighbourhood, are doctors, though they do not
know it, of high degree. They bring the message of the
changing year. They are a perpetual flower calendar,
people to whom a reverence is due. One looks in Piccadilly
Circus for the first Snowdrops, the little knots of
their delicate white faces peering over the edge of the
flower baskets. From the tops of omnibuses the first
Violets are seen. Anemones have their turn, and
Mimosa, and Cowslips, and Roses soon glow in the
midst of the traffic, and elegant Carnations in their
silver grass, and great piles of Asters. So we may read
the year. All through the grey and desolate Winter
these flower women hold their own, through cold and
rain, and pale Winter sun they keep the day alive with the
glowing colours of flowers. I often wonder, as I see
them sit there so patiently, if they know the joy they
give the passer-by, or if they are more like the rocks on
whom flowers grow by nature. They are a curious race,
these flower-women, untidy, with a screw of hair twisted
up under a battered hat of black straw, with faded
shawls wrapped round them, and the weapons of their
craft arranged about them—jam jars of water, wire,
bass, rows of little sticks on the end of which buttonholes
are stuck. And they have wonderful contrivances
for keeping their money, ancient purses rusty
like many of themselves, in which greasy pennies and
wet sixpences wallow in litters of dirty paper. I would
not vouch for the truth of all they say, for it would appear
from their words that every flower in their baskets
is but just picked, or only that second from the market.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>And they regard such evidence as withered and wet
flower stalks with half-humorous scorn. For all they
may not be well favoured, and a pretty flower-woman is
as rare as a dead donkey, still, for me, they have a certain
dingy dignity, or rather a natural picturesque quality as
of lichen on the pavements.</p>
<div id='o153' class='figcenter id009'>
<img src='images/opp_153.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>AZALEAS IN BLOOM, ROTTEN ROW.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>These people are the town’s gardens of odd corners,
while another tribe of them are perambulating gardens
bringing sudden colour into the soberest of streets.
There are those who carry enormous baskets on their
heads, and cry in some incomprehensible tongue words
intended to convey a message such as “All fresh.”
To see a gorgeous glowing mass of Daffodils sway down
the street borne triumphantly aloft like the litter of
some Princess is one of those sights to repay many grey
days. Then the brothers to this tribe are those who carry
from street to street Ferns and Lilies on carts, drawn
often by a patient ass. I own feeling a distrust for
these men, they do not dispense their goods with much
love. They are not eloquent, as are many flower
women in praise of the beauties of the India plant, or
the Shuttle-cock Ferns. I feel that they are interlopers in
the business, and have failed at the hardware trade, or
have no capacity for the selling of rush baskets, or the
grinding of scissors. At the heels of all those who sell
flowers in the streets are the out-cast members of the
tribe, men with brutal faces who follow lonely women in
unfrequented streets trying to thrust dead plants upon
them, and cursing if they are not bought. And there are
the aged crones who sit by the railings of little squares
and hold out a tray of boot laces, matches, a few very
suspicious-looking Apples, and, in the corner, a bunch of
dead flowers—a kind of æsthetic appeal.</p>
<p class='c012'>Your true flower-lover will search as carefully among
their baskets for the object of his desire as will the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>collector the musty curiosity shops for prizes for his
collection. There comes the time when the first Snowdrops,
their stalks tied with wool, appear here and there
and may be brought home as rare prizes. A word here
of flower vases. Clear glass is the only form of vessel for
any kind of flower. I feel certain of that. No crock,
no form of pottery gives out greater the real value to
your cut flowers. The stalks are part of the beauty of
the flower, the submerged leaf as lovely as the leaf above.
And, above and beyond all things, glass shows at once if
your water is pure, and if your vase is full. Nowadays
beautiful striped glass vases are made and sold so cheaply
that there is no excuse for the old, and often ugly, pot
vases so many people use. I own to a certain liking to
seeing roses in old China bowls, but have a lurking suspicion
that I am Philistine in this.</p>
<p class='c012'>There is, of course, a distinction between Town Gardens
and gardens in Towns. The one being the open free
spaces dedicated to the pleasure of Duke and tramp alike:
the other the hidden and hallowed spots where the town
dweller fights soot, grime, smoke, and lack of sun, and
fights them in many cases wonderfully well. One finds,
though, that many people fancy that only Ivy, cats, and
dustbins will flourish in the heart of a smoky City. This
is not the case. Broom, Lilac, Trumpet Flower, Traveller’s
Joy, many kinds of Honeysuckle, Passion Flower,
Tulip Tree, many kinds of Cherry and Plum Trees bearing
beautiful blossoms, Barberry, and Almond Trees—all
these will grow well and strongly even in the worst
parts of London. Five kinds of Honeysuckle will
flourish; they are:</p>
<table class='table5' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='33%' />
<col width='66%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c015'>Lonicera</td>
<td class='c004'>Lepebouri</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c015'>„</td>
<td class='c004'>Flexuosam</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c015'>„</td>
<td class='c004'>Brachypoda aurea</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c015'>„</td>
<td class='c004'>Serotinum</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c015'>„</td>
<td class='c004'>Belgicum</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>Besides these, pink and white Brambles, Meadowsweet,
Weigela, and Rhododendrons all grow fairly easily.</p>
<p class='c012'>One of the first sights the traveller notices on approaching
any large town is the numerous and gay back gardens
of the little houses. The contents of these gardens are a
true index to the inhabitants of the houses. Where one
garden boasts little but old packing-cases, drying linen,
a few stalks of hollyhocks, and one or two giant sunflowers,
the very next will show borders full of all varieties
of flowers in season, an eloquent picture of what may
be done with a little trouble. The consolation and
pleasure these little town gardens give is out of all proportion
to their size. The man who can come home to a
villa, however badly built and hideous, and it often
appears that some competition in ugliness has won
suburban prizes, can find a delight all good gardeners
know in working his plot of land.</p>
<p class='c012'>One thing we can see at a glance, that the good influence
of one well-kept garden in a row will very soon
have its effect. There is one street I know within the
bounds of London, a street of new houses with little
gardens in front of them running down to the pavement.
I watched this street with interest from its very beginning.
At first it was a thing of beauty, the men at work
on the buildings, the scaffolding against the sky, the
horses and carts waiting with loads of brick, the gradual
growth of the houses from foundation to roof. Even the
ugliest building is beautiful in the course of construction,
the poles and ladders hiding the coarse design. Then
there came a day when the street was finished. It is not
an entire street, but about half, being a row of twenty or
so houses built in flats, three flats in each house. When
the men left and the houses stood naked, after the plan
of the builder, looking pitiful and commonplace, the
new red brick was raw, the little balconies very white and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>staring, the windows like blind eyes. Every ground-floor
flat had the disadvantage of less light and air than
the others, but it was the possessor of about nine feet of
land between the door and the pavement. For a long
time I waited to see what would become of this tenant-less
row of houses. I gained a kind of affection for them,
and walked past the white signboards once or twice a
week reading always “To Let” written on the windows,
painted on the notice board, pasted on papers across the
doors. The melancholy aspect of these houses appealed
to me; they had a look of dumb anxiety as if they longed
to hear the sound of voices in their empty rooms. At
last I saw one day three huge furniture vans drawn up in
front of the houses, and during the next two weeks more
vans arrived and there was a sound of hammering in the
street, and a smell of unpacking. Men came there with
boxes and parcels, and tradesmen began to drive up in
carts and motor-cars. I felt that those houses still
standing empty had a jealous look in their windows, like
little girls who had been left to sit out at a dance. The
notice boards were all shifted to their front gardens,
their bell wires still hung unconnected from holes by the
front door.</p>
<p class='c012'>The thing I was really waiting to see happened at
Number Two. The builder, after finishing the houses
had, I suppose, come to the conclusion that a little help
from Nature would do no harm. Some good fairy
prompted him to plant Almond and May Trees alternately
in the front gardens. To each house an Almond and a
May. I had waited eagerly, determining by some fantastic
twist that the spirit of the new houses would first
make her appearance in one of these trees. So far the
street had possessed no character except that vague
rawness that all new places wear. The great event
occurred at Number Two. Very delicately an Almond
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>tree put out the first blossom. The life of the street
began. I did not wonder about the favoured owners of
the ground floor of Number Two. I knew.</p>
<p class='c012'>Not long after the Almond tree had bloomed a cart
drew up before Number Two, and three men began to
wheel barrow loads of earth into the front garden. They
were directed by a gentleman of some age, but of cheerful
countenance. He smiled as each load of earth was neatly
placed. He looked at the earth as if he already saw it
covered with flowers. In his mind’s eye he was arranging
a surprise for the street.</p>
<p class='c012'>The next event of notice in the street was the appearance
of Number Two garden, a blaze of flowers set in a
desert of red brick. A balcony of Number Sixteen, far
down the road, entered into friendly competition.
Numbers Five and Nine worked like slaves. Three
followed suit with carpet-bedding on a tiny scale. A
Laburnam and a Lilac sprang like magic from the soil of
Number Ten. Then, one day, the whole of Number One
burst into flower from top to toe. The tenant of each
floor having apparently been secretly at work to surprise
the rest. Two, who had started, and was indeed the
father of the street, put forth more strenuous efforts.</p>
<p class='c012'>To-day I am certain of a pleasant walk, and can come
out of a wilderness of bricks and mortar to my charming
oasis flowering in the land. I wonder if the people who
live in those flats and who compete with each other in a
friendly rivalry of blossom realise what they are doing
for the hundreds who pass by in the day and are cheered.</p>
<p class='c012'>The Association I have named before, the Metropolitan
Public Gardens Association, give in their statement
for 1907 a list of their window garden competitions
for that year. One sees that many of the poorer parts of
London have taken the idea, and this note I quote from
South Hackney shows the result: “Twelve entries.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>Eight prizes of the total amount of One Pound, Ten
Shillings. Remarks: Clean, fresh-looking, more creepers
than last year; example set is improving character of
roads, as others, not competitors, have started gardens.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Any one who knows the dreary and desolate appearance
of town streets, especially in those parts where life
is lived at the hardest, and surroundings are of the most
sordid, will encourage a work which induced in one year
over five hundred people in London slums to take an
interest in growing flowers.</p>
<p class='c012'>The <i>Spectator</i>, of September 6, 1712, contains a charming
essay upon the English Garden, and the writer draws
attention to Kensington Gardens in the following words:</p>
<p class='c013'>“I shall take notice of that part in the upper gardens
at Kensington, which was at first nothing but a
Gravel Pit. It must have been a fine Genius for gardening,
that could have thought of forming such an
unsightly Hollow into so beautiful an Area, and to
have hit the eye with so uncommon and agreeable a
Scene as that which it is now wrought into. To give
this peculiar spot of ground the greater effect, they
have made a very pleasing contrast; for as on one side
of the Walk you see this hollow Bason, with its several
little Plantations lying so conveniently under the Eye
of the Beholder; on the other side of it there appears a
seeming Mound, made up of trees rising one higher
than another in proportion as they approach the
Centre. A Spectator who has not heard this account of
it, would think this Circular Mount was not only a real
one, but that it had been actually scooped out of that
hollow space which I have before mentioned. I never
yet met with anyone who has walked in this Garden,
who was not struck with that Part of it which I have
mentioned.”</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>The writer finishes his essay with a simple and rather
delightful passage:</p>
<p class='c013'>“You must know, Sir, that I look upon the Pleasure
which we take in a Garden, as one of the innocent
Delights in human Life. A Garden was the Habitation
of our first Parents before the Fall. It is naturally apt
to fill the mind with Calmness and Tranquillity, and
to lay all its turbulent Passions at rest. It gives us a
great Insight into the Contrivance and Wisdom of
Providence, and suggests innumerable subjects for
Meditation. I cannot but think the very Complacency
and Satisfaction which a man takes in these
Works of Nature, to be a laudable, if not a virtuous
Habit of Mind.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Our opinion has not altered in these two hundred years.
The enjoyment of a garden is certainly one of the most
innocent delights in human life, the enjoyment of
the garden he mentions in particular is one of the most
innocent pleasures in London. Kensington Gardens
have inspired many people, the classic of them is undoubtedly
Mr. J. M. Barrie’s “Little White Bird.”
The patron Saint of them is, and I think ever will be,
“Peter Pan.” One has only to walk down the Babies
Mile to hear games from Peter Pan going on in all directions.
This peculiar spirit haunted the Gardens long
before the days of Mr. Barrie, and whispered much of his
charming story in the ears of a bewigged gentleman—Mr.
Tickell, by name—who, in a poem of some considerable
length, sang Kensington’s praises. Those tiny
fairy trumpets sounding in the walks of Kensington
sounded a tune which has never left the air, and
one fancies the creator of Peter Pan catching sight of
a dim ghost now and again, the ghost of Mr. Tickell,
Joseph Addison’s friend, as he walks in full-bottomed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>wig, his wide skirted coat, and sees the fairies too. He
begins:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Where Kensington high o’er the neighb’ring lands</div>
<div class='line'>’Midst greens and sweets, a regal fabric stands,</div>
<div class='line'>And sees each spring, luxuriant in her bowers,</div>
<div class='line'>A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers,</div>
<div class='line'>The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair</div>
<div class='line'>To groves and lawns, and unpolluted air.</div>
<div class='line'>Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies,</div>
<div class='line'>They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies;</div>
<div class='line'>Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread,</div>
<div class='line'>Seems from afar a moving tulip-bed,</div>
<div class='line'>Where rich biscades and glossy damasks glow,</div>
<div class='line'>And chints, the rival of the show’ry bow.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'> * * * * *</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Their midnight pranks the sprightly fairies play’d</div>
<div class='line'>On every hill, and danced in every shade.</div>
<div class='line'>But, foes to sunshine, most they took delight</div>
<div class='line'>In dells and dales conceal’d from human sight:</div>
<div class='line'>There hew’d their houses in the arching rock;</div>
<div class='line'>Or scoop’d the bosom of the blasted oak;</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>There is no doubt about it that these are the very same
fairies who are still at work in the Gardens, and who have
admitted Mr. Barrie into their confidence. All gardens
have ghosts, and Kensington Gardens, I think, more
ghosts than any other. What a club it must be to belong
to, to visit when all London is asleep. Here’s Mr.
Tickell with his version of the Peter Pan story:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>No mortal enter’d, those alone who came</div>
<div class='line'>Stolen from the couch of some terrestrial dame</div>
<div class='line'>For oft of babes they robb’d the matron’s bed.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>But beyond these, the vaguest hints, Mr. Tickell does
not carry. His story has no likeness to the immortal
tale of Peter Pan, but has, in common with it, the same
knowledge that there are fairies in the Gardens living
just as both he and Mr. Barrie know so well under the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>roots of trees. And then there are the children. It is
they who are the sweetest flowers of the town gardens.</p>
<div id='o160' class='figcenter id010'>
<img src='images/opp_160.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>IN HYDE PARK.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>If any man wants an argument in favour of keeping
every available space open in towns and cities let him go
into some crowded neighbourhood and watch the children
playing in the gutters of the streets. Then let him
find one of those places, a disused burial ground, or the
garden of an old square, which has been preserved, and
kept open, and laid out for the benefit of the children, and
he will see the difference at once. There are two such
places easy for the Londoner to visit, the one Browning
Hall Garden, now a garden, once the York Road Burial
Ground, Walworth, the other Meath Gardens, eleven
acres of public garden, once The Victoria Park Cemetery,
Bethnal Green.</p>
<p class='c012'>They say that one half of London doesn’t know how
the other half lives. They do not know, but worse still
they don’t care. It is equally true that half the people
who profess to care for flowers are ignorant of the wonderful
flower-beds carefully grown for their pleasure
within a two-penny ’bus ride of most parts of London.
The row of beds facing Park Lane; the flower walk (where
the babies walk, too) in Kensington Gardens; the flower
walk in Regent’s Park, the Houses at Kew, are sights as
well worth an afternoon’s excursion as any other form of
amusement. Most people almost unconsciously absorb
the colour of cities, vaguely realising grey streets, red
streets, white streets, spaces of grass and trees, big blots
of colour—like the huge beds of scarlet geraniums in
front of Buckingham Palace, but they do not trouble to
get the value of their impressions. People look on the
way from Hyde Park Corner to the Marble Arch as a
convenient means of crossing London instead of one of
the most interesting and delightful experiences to be had.
They go crazy over trees and sky in the country, when
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>they have at their doors sights the country can never
equal. The sun in late autumn setting behind the trees
of Hyde Park and glowing over the murky smoke-laden
skies is a sight for the gods. Smoke has its disadvantages,
but it certainly gives one æsthetic joys unknown
in clear skies, for instance alone the reflection of the
lights of Piccadilly on the evening sky.</p>
<p class='c012'>After all, the time to see the wonder of town gardens
is at night. The streets are empty of people. Here and
there a few night workers walk the lonely streets, a
policeman tramps his beat, the huge carts bringing the
provisions for the city lumber along with sleepy carters
swaddled in sacks perched high among the heaps of
baskets. Here and there men with long hoses are washing
down the roads. The Parks and Gardens lie bathed
in peace, mysterious shadows make velvet caves sheltered
by leaves. Those trees standing close to the road are lit
by the electric lamps and fringe the street with vivid
green. Only the flowers seem really awake, alive, in a
tremendous dream city. Along the lines of houses,
blinds down, shutters closed, a window box here and
there breaks the monotony and seems to be the only real
thing there. If it is Spring, then from Hyde Park
Corner to the Kensington High Street, all along the side
of the Park, behind the railings are regiments of Crocus
flowers, spikes of Narcissus, and of Daffodil. Their
sweetness fills the air, their very presence fills the town
with gentleness, and purifies and softens its grimness.
Far above, in some citadel of flats, a solitary light burns,
some one is at work, or ill, or watching. Above all hang
the blazing stars.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>
<h2 class='c006'>II<br /> <br />THE EFFECT OF TREES</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Of the pleasure and affect of trees no one speaks so
wisely as Bacon. Although those who have a feeling
for garden literature know his essay on Gardens as the
classic of its kind, still many do not recall his thoughts
when the planning of a garden is on hand. Too much,
I think, is given by the man who is about to make a
garden, to his own particular hobby, and many a man
wonders why his garden gives him not all the pleasure
he expected. You will hear of a man talk of his new
Rose beds, of the nursery for Carnations he is in the process
of making, of the placing of his Violet frames, of
his ideas for a rock garden (I think the distressful feeling
for a rockery of clinkers is dead), but you will seldom
hear of a man who deliberates quietly for effects of
trees, or who thinks of planting fruit trees as ornaments,
but always he places them in his kitchen garden, and
ignores their value in their other proper places.</p>
<p class='c012'>Bacon rejoices in his arrangement of gardens for every
month of the year, and dwells, rightly, just as much on
the pleasure of his trees as in the ordering of his flower
beds. Naturally he had not such a large selection of
flowers from which to choose as we have to-day, but
to-day we neglect the beauty of many trees, and especially
the beauty of hedges.</p>
<p class='c012'>Are there sights in any garden more beautiful than
the Almond tree and the Peach tree in blossom, or the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>sweet trailing Sweetbriar? Bacon would have us
notice these, make a feast of these. Also he recommends
the beauty of the White Thorn in leaf, the Cherry
and the Plum trees in blossom, the Cherry tree in fruit,
the Lilac tree, the wonder of the Apple tree, and the
Medlar.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then, again, Bacon touches on a point all too little
counted: the perfume of the garden. He says: “And
because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air
(where it comes and goes like the warbling of musick)
than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that
delight than to know what be the flowers and plants
that do best perfume the air.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Roses, damask and red, are fast flowers of their
smells; so that you may walk by a whole row of them
and find nothing of their sweetness; yea, though it be in
a morning’s dew. Bays likewise yield no smell as they
grow; Rosemary little; nor Sweet Marjoram.</p>
<p class='c012'>“That which above all others yield the sweetest smell
in the air is the Violet, especially the White Double Violet
which comes twice a year; about the middle of April,
and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the Musk
Rose; then the Strawberry leaves dying, which yield
a most excellent cordial smell. Then the flowers of the
Vines; it is a little dust, like the dust of a Bent, which
grows upon the cluster, in the first coming forth: then
the Sweet Briar, then Wallflowers, which are very
delightful to be set under a parlour or lower chamber
window. Then Pinks and Gilly-flowers, especially the
matted Pink and Clove Gilly-flower: then the flowers of
the Lime tree; then the Honeysuckles, so they be somewhat
afar off.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Of Bean flowers I speak not, because they are field
flowers.</p>
<p class='c012'>“But those which perfume the air most delightfully,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and
crushed, are three, that is Burnet, Wild Thyme, and
Water Mints. Therefore, you are to set whole alleys
of them to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.
I would add to these one or two more flowers whose
perfume is easily yielded. The Heliotrope, which at
night will scent a garden; and Stocks, very rich and
sweet scented; Tobacco Plant, a heavy sensuous smell;
Madonna Lilies, seeming almost to breathe; Evening
Primroses; and, after rain when the sun is warm, the
leaves of Geraniums, a faint musky smell, very attractive.
But of all these the garden holds one perfume
more delicious, a scent that, to me at least, is the Queen
of Garden scents since it is the breath of the whole garden
herself. After a Summer’s day when it has been hot
and the lawn has been cut, and the Sun has well baked
the earth, if there should come rain in the evening, a
soft warm rain pattering at first so that it seems each
leaf of flower and tree becomes a drum sounding with
rain beats, then it seems the garden breathes deep and
draws in great draughts of the delicious coolness. Then
after the rain the night comes warm again, and all warm
earth smells, and the new cut grass smells also, and
every tree and flower join force upon force until the
air is filled with a perfume which for want of better
names I would call the Odour of Gratitude.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Furthermore, Bacon speaks of the garden—“The
garden is best to be square, encompassed on all four
sides with a stately arched hedge.” One rich hedge is
there at Bishopsbourne, which it is traditionally supposed
was planted by Richard Hooker, of whom Walton writes:
“It is a hedge of over one hundred feet in length, from
twelve to fourteen feet in height, and some ten feet
thick. It is one of the finest Yew hedges in England,
a wonderful colour, an amazing strength and beautiful,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>when it is clipped and trimmed, to look upon.” Of
the pleasure and comfort of such hedges, of the health
to be gained by regarding them, many people have
spoken. There is, surely, something in the tough
green life of the Yew, something in its staunchness that
conveys a feeling of strength to the mind. I feel this
in different degree with every kind of tree, partly no
doubt from moments of particular association, from
memories that become attached to scenes as they will
(curious how scents, arrangements of colour, outlines
against a sky, will call up things and thoughts which
for the moment have no connection with them. I never
see Oranges but I think of a dark passage lined with
books, and a cupboard built round with books in shelves.
In the cupboard are dishes of fruit, and shapes, all tied
up in linen, of fruit cheeses, as damson cheese, and crab-apple
cheese, and a cheese made of Quinces and Medlars).</p>
<p class='c012'>I remember a graveyard in a little Swiss village
where every grave had a tiny weeping willow bending
over it. It had, for us, infinitely more pathos than the
sombreness of many English graveyards. There was a
rushing torrent below, for the church and its graveyard
was on a height over a river, and the voice of the
river sang in the quiet graveyard, like a strong spirit
singing in the pride of vigour to those asleep. The
little willows bent and shivered in the breeze, looking
small and pathetic against the strong small church.
Outside the church, all along one wall was a seat very
smooth and worn, it faced the graves and the tiny
trees, and behind it, on the wall of the church, was a
great Wisteria with clusters of pale purple flowers.
There were no other trees there, or to be seen from the
seat, but these little bending weeping trees. And close
by, a hundred yards from the church gate, was the
undertaker’s shop, part farm, part garden, part stocked
<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>with elm planks. As I passed by the son was making a
coffin out in the middle of the road on trestles. Looking
back one could see the young man bending earnestly
over his work, the sound of his saw ripping the air.
Behind him was the grey stone of the church and the
forest of little shivering trees over the graves. A little
below, just across the river over a covered bridge, was a
beer-garden where a family was sitting drinking beer
out of tall mugs. They sat, father, mother, sons and
daughters, all dressed in black, under Chestnut trees
cut down very close and clipped to make alleys of shade.
And a little behind them was a forest rising on a hill
with great masses of trees all shades of green, and glowing
in the light of an afternoon sun. But of all this I carry
mostly the memory of those little trees, quiet weeping
sentinels, very pathetic.</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>Trees, especially isolated groups of trees, in towns
and cities have a wonderful fascination. The very
idea that they burst into bud and leaf in the midst of
all the smoke and grime, and the noise and hurry, is
health-giving. It brings repose, it brings hope. I
believe the trees in town squares get more love than
any country trees. They mean so much. It seems so
good of them to fight, and to come out year by year
clean and fresh and green, and in Winter when they are
bare they make a delicate webwork of twigs against
the background of soot-covered houses. Then in the
Spring when they turn faintly purple there is a haze
across the square, and it seems that even the pigeons
and the horses on the cab rank feel it, but cannot
scarcely believe it. Then, perhaps there is an Almond
tree in the square and it will suddenly break out into
the most exquisite finery, like the daintiest of women,
making the square gay and full of joy. The Spring
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>has come. It is almost unbelievable. And people
passing through the square who have forgotten all
about the Spring look up suddenly and smile, and say:
“Look at the Almond tree. Spring is here.” Those
who know the country turn their minds inwards and
remember that the brown owls have begun to hoot,
that the gossamer is floating, that, here and there
yellow and white butterflies are flitting, looking strangely
out of season, that the raven is building, and the rooks
too, and that all sorts of birds they had forgotten are
seen in the land.</p>
<p class='c012'>After that the big trees in the square become hazy
with bursting bud, and one morning, as if some message
had been whispered overnight, the far side of the square
is only to be seen through a screen of the tenderest
green. Bit by bit the leaves comes out, get bright,
clean washed by showers, get dingy with the soot. Then
comes the fall of the leaf and the crisp curl of it as it
changes colour, and the far side of the square begins to
show again through bronze-coloured leaves. At last
the Winter comes and all that is left is the tracery of
boughs and twigs, and heaps of dead, beautiful-coloured
leaves beneath the trees. These still provide an interest,
for the wind comes and picks them up and
whirls them right up into the air in all sorts of amazing
dances and games.</p>
<div id='o169' class='figcenter id011'>
<img src='images/opp_169.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>THE SEAT BENEATH THE OAK IN THE POET LAUREATE’S GARDEN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>In the Winter one last beauty comes. The day has
been leaden, sad-coloured, bitterly cold. All the cabmen
on the rank stamp with their feet, and swing their
arms to keep themselves warm, and there is a little
mist where all the horses breathe. And people coming
through the square have forgotten the Almond tree,
and the look of the big trees when the hot sun splashed
gold on their leaves, and they say, looking at the sky,
“See how dark it is, it is going to snow.” The snow
<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>comes; the sky is darker; the trees stick up looking
black, like drawings in pen and ink. Flakes, white
flakes, twenty, forty, then a rush—a thousand; the sky
full of tiny white flakes, the air full of them whirling
down. All sounds begin to be muffled. Horses hoofs
beat with a thud on the ground. The sound of voices
in the air is deadened. The voices of men encouraging
horses sound sharp now and again, or a whip cracks
like a shot. The square is covered with snow, every
twig is outlined in white, black patches of bark show
here and there, and emphasise the dead whiteness.
When it has stopped snowing and a watery light comes
from the sun all the trees gleam wonderfully, looking
like fairy trees. And people passing through the
square making beaten tracks in the snow saying, “It
is Winter.”</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>In a country garden there is a tree stands on the end
of a lawn. It is an Acacia tree, old, gnarled, and twisted,
with Ivy round it, deep Ivy in which thrushes build
year after year; there is a stone near by on which the
thrushes break the shells of snails, the “tap, tap,” of
the birds at work is one of the peaceful sounds that
break the silence of the garden.</p>
<p class='c012'>Under the tree is an oblong mark of pressed grass
greener than the rest of the lawn, where the garden-roller
rests. And there is a seat under the tree, and a
wooden foot-rest by it.</p>
<p class='c012'>Touch the tree and you go back at once to a picture
of a boy, the boy who helped to plant it over a hundred
and fifty years before. If you look from the tree across
the lawn to the house you will see the very door by
which he came out with his father to plant the tree.</p>
<p class='c012'>The house and the tree have grown old together, both
of them have mellowed with the garden and wear a look
<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>of old security and calm, and have an air of wise old
age.</p>
<p class='c012'>Up and down the five white steps from the garden
path to the house more than five generations have
passed, men in wide-skirted coats and full wigs hanging
about their ears in great corkscrew curls, men in powdered
wigs, rolled stockings, square buckled shoes,
men in stocks and immense collars, and big frills to
their shirts making them look like gentlemanly fish,
down to the man who comes out to day who looks a
little old-fashioned, and is square-built like the house,
and who parts his hair like the men in Leech’s pictures,
and who wears a rim of whisker round his face. And
troops of ladies have passed out by that door into the
garden in hoops, and sacques, and towers of hair, and
crinolines. But no lady comes out now to cut the
Lavender hedge, or snip at the Roses. The man is
alone. But when he sits alone under the tree, with a
spud by his side ready to uproot Plantains from his
lawn, he can see troops of the garden ghosts sitting
round him under the Acacia tree.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sometimes there seems to be a sound of the ghostly
click of bowls on the lawn, for it is a bowling-green
banked up on three sides (the fourth bank has been done
away with long ago), and there is a company of gentlemen
in their wide shirt sleeves playing bowls. Above
them, on the raised terrace next to the house where
there is a broad path, a group of old people sit by little
tables and drink wine, and smoke, and gossip. And
behind them are tall Hollyhocks, and Roses and a
tangle of old-fashioned flowers such as Periwinkles
and Sweet Williams, and Pinks. The Acacia tree,
which grows on the lawn beyond the bowling green, is
quite small.</p>
<p class='c012'>The old man who dreams of these ghosts in his garden
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>recognises them readily because they have stepped out
of pictures on his walls, and when they are not haunting
the garden are demurely hanging on the oak panels in
the old rooms.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then he can see, if he chooses, a picture of the garden
when the acacia tree is quite tall, but still elegant and
slender, and in this picture an old, old lady walks down
the garden paths. She is dressed in a large hooped
skirt with panniers, and has high-heeled shoes, and a
perfect tower of hair on her head, and over that a calash
hood like the hood over a waggon except that it is black.
She carries an ebony stick in a silk-mittened hand, a
hand knotted with gout and covered with the mourning
rings of her friends. She it was who added largely to
the garden, and took in two acres more of land, and
planted a row of Elms and Beech trees. She kept the
garden as bright and gay as the samplers she worked herself.
She had a mania for set beds, and her Tulips were
the talk of the county. A long bed of them ran from
the house along one bank of the bowling-green to the
orchard, and it was arranged in pattern of colours, lines,
squares, interlaced geometrical designs of flaming red and
scarlet, pink and yellow and white and dull purple.
She it was who caused the sundial to be placed in the
garden and who found the motto for it, and designed the
four triangular beds to go round it, and placed a hedge
of Lavender and Rosemary all about it in a square.</p>
<p class='c012'>The tap of her stick on the paths is one of the ghostly
sounds that haunt the place, and sometimes it is difficult
to know whether it is a woodpecker, or a thrush breaking
open a snail, or her stick that makes such a sharp crisp
sound on the Summer air.</p>
<p class='c012'>There is another sound, too, that the Acacia tree
knows well. It is the click of glasses under its boughs.
On a table placed under the tree is an array of beautiful
<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>cut-glass decanters and a number of glasses which reflect
in the polished mahogany surface. Round the table
four gentlemen sit with white wigs and elegant lace falls
at their throats, and ruffles at their wrists. It is a hot
Summer afternoon, and so still that not a Rose leaf of
those spread on the lawn stirs. A large white sheet lies
on the lawn covered with thousands of rose petals left
to dry in the sun, and when they are dry, and have undergone
a careful mixture with spices, and have herbs added
to them by the mistress of the house, they will be placed
in china bowls in all the rooms, and will give out a subtle
delicious odour.</p>
<p class='c012'>The man who is dreaming in his garden can see the four
gentlemen as plain as life raising their glasses and touch
them before drinking the silent toast. And it is difficult
to tell whether it is the gardener striking on his frames by
accident, or the chink of glasses that sounds so clearly
under the Acacia tree.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now, in another picture the garden holds, things are
somewhat altered. Instead of the big Tulip bed on the
lawn there are a number of small cut beds with long beds
behind them on either side of a new gravel walk. Instead
of the older fashioned borders there are startling
colour schemes of carpet-bedding in which the flowers
are made to look more like coloured earths than anything.
In the long beds, instead of the profusion of
Hollyhocks, Sunflowers and bushes of Roses, a primness
reigns. A row of blue Lobelia backed by a row of white
Lobelia, then scarlet Geraniums, then Calceolarias,
then crimson Beet plants, every ten yards a Marguerite
Daisy sticks up out of the middle of the bed. Only one
rambling border remains, and that is hidden from the
view of the house windows, but can just be seen from the
seat under the Acacia tree. In it Phlox and Red-hot
Pokers, Asters, Anemonies, Moss Rose, and French
<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>Marigolds grow profusely, and some merciful sentiment
has allowed an old twisted Apple tree to remain there.</p>
<p class='c012'>The old bowling-green is still beautifully kept, the
grass is smooth and fair, not a Daisy or Plantain is there
to mar the splendour of the turf. The Acacia tree, now
grown old and venerable, spreads out fine branches, and
gives delightful shade. Here and there new arches of
rustic woodwork, in horrible designs, stretch over the
paths, their ugliness partly hidden by climbing Roses of
the Seven Sisters kind, or Clematis, or Honeysuckle, or
Jasmine. Many trees in the garden are old enough to
exchange memories of a hundred years ago; the orchard
alone boasts a venerable congregation of old trees, some
grey with lichen, some bowed down with the result of
full crops.</p>
<p class='c012'>New ghosts walk the garden paths in crinolines and
Leghorn hats, and side curls, talking to gentlemen with
glossy side whiskers, peg-top trousers, and tartan waistcoats.</p>
<p class='c012'>On the bowling-green the new game is laid out, and
ladies and gentlemen talk learnedly of bisques, and the
correct weight of croquet mallets. There is a fresh
sound for the garden, the smack of croquet balls.</p>
<p class='c012'>And now nearly all the ghosts vanish, and the old man
who is sitting under the Acacia tree looks around and
sees his garden as it is to-day, fuller of flowers than ever it
was, with the hideous set borders done away with, with
the little rustic arches pulled down and a pergola, properly
built, in their place, and all of the horrors of Early
Victorian gardening gone for good, the plaster nymphs
and cupids, the tree called a “Monkey Puzzler,” the
terrible rockery of clinkers and bad bricks. Here, as in
the house, taste has triumphed over fashion. Inside the
oak panels that had been covered over with hideous
wallpapers are brought to light. The wool mats have
<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>vanished, the glass domes over clocks, the worsted bell-pulls,
the druggets and the rep curtains all gone for
good.</p>
<p class='c012'>Outside, wonders have been worked in the garden.
New beds filled with the choicest Roses and Carnations.
Water is now properly conveyed by a sprinkler.
The old water-butt, slimy and falling to pieces, gone to
give place to a well filled concrete tank of water, kept
clean and sweet.</p>
<p class='c012'>One more ghostly sound left, a sound the lonely man
unconsciously listens for as he sits under the tree. On
one bough, low growing and strong, shows the marks
deep cut where once depended the ropes of a swing.
In his ears he can sometimes hear the shouts of children
and the creak of the swing ropes, sounds he used to
hear in his childhood. And mingled with the children’s
laughter he can hear, very faintly, a boy’s voice, his own.</p>
<p class='c012'>Such is the story of an hundred English Gardens,
where trees will tell secrets, and the lawn holds memories,
and the paths echo with footsteps out of the past.</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>The influence literature has on the mind is nowhere
more traceable than in a garden. A dozen thoughts
spring to the mind gathered out of the store cupboards
of remembered reading at the sight of flowers, trees,
sunlit walks, dark alleys. Trees call up romantic meetings,
hollow trunks where lovers have posted their
letters, dark shades where vows have been made, smooth
trunks on which are carven twin hearts pierced by a
single arrow and crowned with initials cut into the bark.
Gloomy recesses under spreading boughs remind one of
the hiding places of conspirators, of fugitives.</p>
<p class='c012'>Sometimes, on a winter’s night, to look into the garden
and see the trees toss and shake with an angry wind, or
stand bare, bleak, and black against the sparkle of a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>frosty sky, some written thing comes quickly into the
brain almost as if the printed letters stood out clear.
There is one scene of winter and trees comes often to me
very full and clear. It is from the beginning of “Martin
Chuzzlewit,” and heralds the entrance in the story of the
immortal Mr. Pecksniff.</p>
<p class='c012'>“The fallen leaves, with which the ground was strewn,
gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and, subduing all
harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels, created a
repose in gentle unison with the light scattering of
seed hither and thither by the distant husbandman,
and with the noiseless passage of the plough as it turned
up the rich brown earth and wrought a graceful pattern
in the stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of
some trees autumn berries hung like clusters of coral
beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits
were jewels; others, stripped of all their garniture,
stood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red
leaves, watching their slow decay; others again still
wearing theirs, had them all crunched and crackled up,
as though they had been burnt. About the stems of
some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they
had borne that year; while others (hardy evergreens
this class) showed somewhat stern and gloomy in
their vigour, as charged by nature with the admonition
that it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favourites
she grants the longest term of life. Still athwart their
darker boughs the sunbeams struck out paths of deeper
gold; and the red light, mantling in among their
swarthy branches, used them as foils to set its brightness
off, and aid the lustre of the dying day.</p>
<p class='c012'>“A moment, and its glory was no more. The sun
went down beneath the long dark lines of hill and cloud
which piled up in the west an airy city, wall heaped on
wall, and battlement on battlement; the light was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>all withdrawn; the shining church turned cold and
dark; the stream forgot to smile; the birds were silent;
and the gloom of winter dwelt in everything.</p>
<p class='c012'>“An evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches
cracked and rattled as they moved, in skeleton dances,
to its moaning music. The withering leaves, no longer
quiet, hurried to and fro in search of shelter from its
chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked the horses, and,
with head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them;
and from the cottage windows lights began to glance
and wink upon the darkening fields.</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>“It was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go
wreaking its vengeance on such poor creatures as the
fallen leaves; but this wind, happening to come up
with a great heap of them just after venting its humour
on the insulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter
them that they fled away, pell-mell, some here, some
there, rolling over each other, whirling round and round
upon their thin edges, taking frantic flights into the
air, and playing all manner of extraordinary gambols
in the extremity of their distress. Nor was this good
enough for its malicious fury; for not content with
driving them abroad, it charged small parties of them,
and hunted them into the wheelwright’s saw-pit, and
below the planks and timbers in the yard, and, scattering
the sawdust in the air it looked for them underneath,
and when it did meet with any, whew! how it
drove them on and followed on their heels!</p>
<div id='o176' class='figcenter id012'>
<img src='images/opp_176.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>IN THE BOTANIC GARDEN, OXFORD.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>“The scared leaves only flew the faster for all this,
and a giddy chase it was; for they got into unfrequented
places, where there was no outlet, and where
their pursuer kept them eddying round and round at
his pleasure; and they crept under the eaves of houses,
and clung tightly to the sides of hayricks like bats;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>and tore in at open chamber windows, and cowered
close to hedges; and, in short, went anywhere for
safety. But the oddest feat they achieved was, to
take advantage of the sudden opening of Mr. Pecksniff’s
front door, to dash wildly down his passage, with the
wind following close upon them, and finding the back
door open, incontinently blew out the lighted candle
held by Miss Pecksniff, and slammed the front door
against Mr. Pecksniff, who was at that moment entering,
with such violence, that in the twinkling of an eye,
he lay on his back at the bottom of the steps. Being
by this time weary of such trifling performances, the
boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing, roaring over
moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea,
where it met with other winds similarly disposed, and
made a night of it.”</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>Is not this wonderful and immortal passage as much
a part of the Charm of Gardens as the most delectable
poetry on the perfumed air of a summer night?</p>
<p class='c012'>Often, when the logs are crackling on the hearth, one
hears those hunted leaves come banging on the window
panes, those gaunt trees tossing in the wind. When
all the garden lies cold and bare and stripped of green,
the trees roar out an answer to the wind, an hundred
garden voices swell the storm, and you sit happy by your
fireside and dream new colours for the garden beds; and
where a white frost sparkles on the earth, and trees lift
up bare fingers to the sky, you see deep wealth of green,
and jewelled borders brim full of spring flowers, and
there a set of bulbs you have nursed, come out sweet in
green sheathes, and here a tree, now naked, clothed in
young green.</p>
<p class='c012'>That for the night. For the morning, trailing clouds
of mist over the trees like fairy shawls alive with dew-diamonds,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>each dew-drop reflecting its tiny world. The
trees, the world, the garden still asleep, or half asleep,
until the sun throws off the counterpane of clouds and
springs into the skies.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is at that time, before the sun is awake, the trees
look strange as sleeping things look strange, with a
counterfeit of death, so still are they. And in the Spring
when the orchard is a pale ghost before the sun is up, a
man would swear it had been covered up at night in
silver smoke, or gossamer, or fairy silk that the sun tears
into weeping shreds that drip and drip and give the
grass a bath.</p>
<p class='c012'>But of the effect of trees as a spiritual support no man
is at variance with another. That they give courage,
and help and hope, that the green sight of them is
good as being reminder that Heaven is kind, and that
the Winter is not always, no man doubts but, perhaps,
fears to voice, feeling his neighbour will call out at
him for a worshipper of Pan and of strange gods. But
to the garden dweller, or to him who must perforce make
his garden of one tree in a dusty court, and of one glass
of flowers on his desk, these things have voices, and they
are kindly voices, saying, “Despair not,” and “Regard
me how I grow upright through the seasons,” and also
“Give shade and shelter to all things and men equally as
I do, without distinction or difference, and if the grass
gives a couch, fair and embroidered with flowers, so do I
give a roof of infinite variety, and a shade from the sun,
and a shelter from the wind.” And again, “If a man
know a tree to love it he will understand much of men,
and of birds, and beasts and of all living things. And of
greater things too, for in the branches is other fruit than
the fruit of the tree. Just as the rainbow is set in the
sky for a promise, so is fruit in a tree set there; and the
leaves show how orderly is the Great Plan; and the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>branches show the strength of slender things, and of
little things, so that a man may know how Heaven has
its roots in earth, and its crest in the clouds. And a man
who holds to earth with one hand, and reaches at the
stars with the other, in that span he encompasses all that
may be known if he but see it. But men are blind, and do
not see the sky but as sky, and do not see the stars but
as balls of fire, or the green grass but as a carpet, or the
flowers but as a combination of chemical accidents. But
over all, and through all, and in all is God, Who still
speaks with Adam in the Garden.”</p>
<p class='c012'>These things are to be learnt of trees both great and
small, withered and young, sapling and Oak of centuries.
And they are to be learnt also in the dust on a butterfly’s
wing; or of a blade of grass; or of a hemp seed. But
men are deaf, and hear no voice but the voice of water
in a rushing stream; and no sound but the sound of
leaves stirring when the wind rests in a tree; and no
voice speaking in a blaze of flowers who sing praises
night and day in scented voices.</p>
<p class='c012'>A tree is not dumb, and the Creeping Briar is not
dumb, and the Rose has a voice like the voice of a woman
rejoicing that she is fair. But men are dumb, for though
their hearts speak, all tongues are not touched with fire.</p>
<p class='c012'>So may trees be a solace in trouble, and secrets may
be whispered to bushes of Rosemary and Lavender, who
will yield their secret solace of peace, as the tree yields
strength. All these things are written in a garden in
coloured letters of gold, and green, and crimson, in blue
and purple, orange and grey, and they are written for a
purpose. And a man may seek diligently for the secret
of this great book and find nothing if he seek with his
head alone. He will tell of the growth of trees, their
years, their nature, their sickness. He will learn of the
power of the sap which flows down from the tips of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>leaves to the great tree roots all snug in the soil; and he
will learn of the veins in the leaves, and the properties of
the gum of the bark, yet will he never learn that of which
the tree speaks always, night and day—praising.</p>
<p class='c012'>Of what is the colour of green that the earth’s best
page is made of it? Of what is the colour of young
green that it brings, unbidden, tender thoughts? It is
more than the gold of Corn, and the brown of ploughed
earth, and the glory of flowers. By it comes peace to the
eyes, and through the eyes to the heart of man, so that
men say of youth and the times of youth that they are
salad days; and of old age, if so be it is a fine old age,
that it is green. It is the colour of the body as blue is
the colour of the soul. The sky and the sea are blue,
and they are things of mystery, deep and profound, and
because of their great depth and profundity they are
blue. The grass and the trees, and the leaves of flowers,
and blades of young Corn are green. They are mysterious
things but they are nearer to man, and he has them to his
hand to be near them, and get quick comfort of them.</p>
<p class='c012'>And Daisies are the stars of the grass, as stars are the
Daisies of Heaven; and if a man look long at the stars
set out orderly in the sky he may become fearful, for
God may seem far off and difficult; yet if he be near he
may pick a Daisy and take his fill of comfortable things,
for God will seem near and His voice in the Daisy.</p>
<p class='c012'>Yet many a man will walk over a field of grass pressing
the Daisies with his feet, and take no heed of them, or of
the stars over above his head; and the night and the day
will be to him but light and darkness, and the stars but
lanterns to show him home, and the Daisies but flowers
of the field. But if he be a man who sees all, and
in everything can feel the finger and pulse of God, his
staff will blossom in his hand, and he will go on his way
rejoicing.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>In this way can man regard the trees in his garden,
and speak with them, loving them, and learning of them,
for learning is all of love. And he may yet be an ordinary
man, not poet, or artist, but he must be mystic because
he has the true sight. Many a man, stockbroker,
clerk, painter, labourer, soldier, or whatever he seems to
be, has his real being in these moments, and they are
revealed through love or sorrow, but not by hard learning
or text-books.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>
<h2 class='c006'>III<br /> <br />A LOVER OF GARDENS</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>There are many who say this and that of Sir John
Mandeville, his Travels; that he was not; that he was a
Frenchman; that no one knows who he was. For years
he was to me an English Knight who lived at St. Albans,
and from there set out to travel over all the world seeking
adventure, and relating the peculiarities of his
journey in fascinating, if slightly imaginative, language.
I rejoiced when he saw a board from the Noah’s Ark,
when he talked with the Cham of Tartary; and told of the
wonders of Ind. But comes along this and that expert
who upset the figure of the gallant Knight, and heave
him from horse to ground as a dummy figure, and burn
him for firewood as a fallen idol. And why? It appears
that Sir John is no more a real being than Homer,
or Æsop, or any other of those personal names for great
bundles of collected literature; and is a literature all by
himself, and a series of impudent thieves who stole
travellers’ tales and jotted them together in a personal
narrative. For all that I believe in a figure of the blind
Homer, and the impudent slave Æsop who played
tricks on his master, and I firmly believe in a stalwart
figure of Sir John Mandeville, Knight, “albeit,” he says,
“I be not worthy, that was born in England, in the town
of St. Albans, and passed the sea in the year of our Lord
Jesu Christ, 1322, in the day of St. Michael.”</p>
<p class='c012'>There is one thing, a touch of character, put in, maybe,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>by the skilful editor of these travels, that makes us
lean to the man as being a real person. It is his love of
Gardens, and his pains to tell of them, and the stories
of trees, and legends. And whether one who confessed
to the fraud of putting these travels together—Jean de
Bourgogne, by name—was a keen gardener or herbalist,
or whether it was a literary habit of the fourteenth
century (which, when I come to think of it, is so), somehow
I feel that there is a garden-loving spirit in forming
the book, and for that I love the man.</p>
<p class='c012'>In his wanderings Sir John meets many things, and
of these I beg leave to choose here and there one or two
of his anecdotes when they touch an idea such as gardeners
love. The first is of the True Cross, and the story
of its origin. All of Sir John I have read in Mr. Pollard’s
edition, than which nothing could be more satisfactory
and clear expressed.</p>
<h3 class='c017'><span class='sc'>Of the Cross</span></h3>
<p class='c018'>“And the Christian men, that dwell beyond the sea,
in Greece, say that the Tree of the Cross, that we call
Cypress, was one of that tree that Adam ate the apple
off; and that find they written. And they say also, that
their Scripture saith, that Adam was sick, and said to his
son Seth, that he should go to the angel that kept Paradise,
that he would send him the oil of mercy, for to
anoint with his members, that he might have health.
And Seth went. But the angel would not let him come
in; but said to him, that he might not have of the oil of
mercy. But he took him three grains of the same tree,
that his father ate the apple off; and bade him, a soon
as his father was dead, that he should put these three
grains under his tongue, and grave him so; and so he
did. And of these three grains sprang a tree, as the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>angel said it should, and bare a fruit, through the which
fruit Adam should be saved.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And when Seth came again, he found his father near
dead. And when he was dead, he did with the grains
as the angel bade him; of the which sprung three trees,
of the which the Cross was made, that bare good fruit and
blessed, our Lord Jesu Christ.”</p>
<div id='o185' class='figcenter id013'>
<img src='images/opp_185.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>THE PRIDE OF SPRING, SURREY.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>
<h2 class='c006'>IV<br /> <br />OF THE CROWN OF THORNS</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>“And if all it be so, that men say, that this crown is of
thorns, ye shall understand that, it was of jonkes of the
sea, that is to say, rushes of the sea, that prick as sharply
as thorns. For I have seen and beholden many times
that of Paris and that of Constantinople; for they were
both one, made of rushes of the sea. But man have
departed them in two parts: of the which one part is at
Paris, and the other part is at Constantinople. And I
have one of those precious thorns that seemeth like a
White Thorn; and that was given to me for great
speciality. For there are many of them broken and
fallen into the vessel that the crown lieth in; for they
break for dryness when the men move them to show to
great lords that come hither.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And ye shall understand, that our Lord Jesu, in that
night that he was taken, he was led into a garden; and
there he was first examined right sharply; and there
the Jews scorned him, and made him a crown of the
branches of the Albespine, that is White Thorn, that
grew in that same garden, and set it on his head, so fast
and so sore, that the blood ran down by many places of
his visage, and of his neck, and of his shoulders. And
therefore hath the White Thorn many virtues, for he
that beareth a branch on him thereof, no thunder or no
manner of tempest may dere him; nor in the house that
it is in may no evil ghost enter nor come into the place
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>that it is in. And in that same garden, Saint Peter
denied our Lord thrice.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Afterward was our Lord led forth before the bishops
and the masters of the law, into another garden of
Annas; and there also he was examined, reproved,
and scorned, and crowned eft with a Sweet Thorn, that
men clepeth Barbarines, that grew in that garden, and
that hath also many virtues.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And after he was led into a garden of Caiphas, and
then he was crowned with Eglantine.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And after he was led into the chamber of Pilate,
and there he was examined and crowned. And the
Jews set him in a chair, and clad him in a mantle;
and there made they the crown of jonkes of the sea;
and there they kneeled to him, and scorned him, saying,
‘Ave, Rex Judeoram!’ That is to say, ‘Hail, King
of Jews!’ And of this crown, half is at Paris, and
the other half at Constantinople.”</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>From these fanciful byways Sir John goes on his way
looking, as before, for curious things, and for marvels
of trees and fruits. He tells of the fine plate of gold
writ by Hermogenes, the wise man who foretold the
birth of Christ. He passes the Isles of Colcos and of
Lango where the daughter of Ypocras is yet in the form
of a dragon. And he goes by the town of Jaffa—“for
one of the sons of Noah, that bright Japhet, founded
it, and now it is called Joppa. And ye shall understand,
that it is one of the oldest towns of the world,
for it was founded before Noah’s flood. And yet
there sheweth in the rock, there as the iron chains were
fastened, that Andromeda, a great giant was bounden
with, and put in prison before Noah’s flood, of the
which giant, is a rib of his side that is forty foot long.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Then he finds in Egypt some curious Apples.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>
<h2 class='c006'>V<br /> <br />OF APPLES</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>“Also in that country and in others also, men find
long Apples to sell, in their season, and men clepe them
Apples of Paradise; and they be right sweet and of
good savour. And though ye cut them in never so
many gobbets or parts, over-thwart or endlong, evermore
ye shall find in the midst the figure of the Holy
Cross of our Lord Jesu.</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>“And men find there also the Apple of the tree of
Adam, that have a bite at one of the sides; and there
be also small Fig trees that bear no leaves, but Figs
upon the small branches; and men clepe them Figs of
Pharoah.”</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>Sir John, on his constant look out lets no oddment
pass him by, and the more peculiar the better. It
appears he would rather see a well in a field—“that
our Lord Jesu Christ made with one of his feet, when
he went to play with other children”—than many
things political or notable to the country. And he
will never come to a country but he will mention the
state of its trees and fruits, these, naturally, being
important items to the traveller of his day who might
at any moment have to fall back on the natural fruits
of the field for his food. So, when he goes by the
desert to the valley of Elim, he notes the seventy-two
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>Palm trees there growing—“the which Moses found
with the children of Israel.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Then he comes by Mount Sinai, and there he finds the
convent by the spot where was the burning bush; and
the Church of Saint Catherine is there—“in the which
be many lamps burning; for they have of oil of Olives
enough, both to burn in their lamps and to eat also.
And that plenty they have by the miracle of God; for the
raven and the crows and the choughs and other fowls of
the country assemble them there every year once, and fly
thither as in pilgrimage; and everych of them bringeth a
branch of the Bays or of the Olive in their beaks instead
of offering, and leave them there; of which the monks
make great plenty of oil. And this is a great marvel.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VI<br /> <br />OF THE FIRST GARDENER</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Now Sir John, who had a great feeling for our first
father Adam, came frequently on stories of him and of
places where he lived. And he went from Bathsheba,
the town founded, as he says—“by Bersabe, the wife of
Sir Uriah the Knight,”—and journeyed to the city of
Hebron. “And it was clept sometime the Vale of
Mamre, and sometimes it was clept the Vale of Tears,
because that Adam wept there an hundred year for the
death of Abel his son, that Cain slew.”</p>
<p class='c012'>There, in this Vale of Hebron, where Sir John says
Abraham had his house, and is buried, as are Adam and
Eve, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Leah, and Rebecca, is also the
first dwelling-place of Adam after the Fall.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And right fast by that place is a cave in the rock,
where Adam and Eve dwelled when they were put out of
Paradise; and there got they their children. And in the
same place was Adam formed and made, after that some
men say (for men were wont for to clept that place the
field of Damascus, because that it was in the lordship of
Damascus), and from thence he was translated into
Paradise of delights, as they say; and after that he was
driven out of Paradise he was there left. And the same
day that he was put in Paradise, the same day he was
put out, for anon he sinned. There beginneth the Vale
of Hebron, that dureth nigh to Jerusalem. There the
Angel commanded Adam that he should dwell with his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>wife Eve, of the which he gat Seth; of which tribe,
that is to say kindred, Jesu Christ was born.”</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>Here then is the legend of the first Garden in which
Adam delved, and lived by the sweat of his brow.
Again Sir John tells us of a place where he noticed the
trees, especially the Dry tree, and it can be seen how
much a lover of Gardens and of growing things he was,
and how he looked for and noticed these things and set
them down.</p>
<p class='c012'>This Dry Tree was an Oak of Abraham’s time.</p>
<h3 class='c017'><span class='sc'>Of the Dry Tree</span></h3>
<p class='c018'>“And there is a tree of Oak, that the Saracens clepe
Dirpe, that is of Abraham’s time; the which men clepe
the Dry tree. And they say that it hath been there
since the beginning of the world, and was some-time green
and bare leaves, until the time that our Lord died on the
Cross, and then it dried; and so did all the trees that
were then in the world. And some say, by their prophecies,
that a lord, a prince of the west side of the
world, shall win the Land of Promission, that is the Holy
Land, with the help of Christian men, and he shall do
sing a mass under that Dry tree; and then the tree shall
wax green, and bear both fruit and leaves, and through
that miracle many Saracens and Jews shall be turned to
Christian faith; and, therefore, they do great worship
thereto, and keep it full busily. And, albeit so, that it
dry, natheles yet he beareth great virtue, for certainly he
hath a little thereof upon him, it healeth him of the falling
evil, and his horse shall not be afoundered: and
many other virtues it hath; wherefore men hold it full
precious.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VII<br /> <br />OF THE FIRST ROSES</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Then Sir John tells of a field nigh to Bethlehem, called
Floridus, and here was a maiden wrongfully blamed, and
condemned to death, and to be burnt.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And as the fire began to burn about her, she made
her prayers to our Lord, that as wisely as she was not
guilty of that sin, that he would keep her and make it to
be known to all men, of His merciful grace. And when
she had thus said, she entered into the fire, and anon was
the fire quenched and out; and the brands that were
burning became red Rose trees, and the brands that were
not kindled became white Rose trees, full of Roses. And
these were the first Rose trees and Roses, both white and
red, that every any man said; and thus was this maiden
saved by the grace of God. And therefore is that field
clept the Field of God Flourished, for it was full of Roses.”</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>And later Sir John tells how he saw the Elder tree on
the which Judas hanged himself. And he tells of the
Sycamore tree that Zaccheus the dwarf climbed into.
And of a plank of Noah’s ship that a monk, by the Grace
of God, brought down from Ararat.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then Sir John comes to Java on his wanderings, and
by that isle is another called Pathen, and here he saw
wonderful trees, bearing bread, and honey, and wine, and
poison. Of the tree that bears the venom he says:</p>
<p class='c012'>“And other trees that bear venom, against which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>there is no medicine, but one; and that is to take their
proper leaves and stamp them and temper them with
water, and then drink it, and else he shall die; for triacle
will not avail, ne none other medicine. Of this venom
the Jews had let seek of one of their friends for to
empoison all Christianity, as I have heard them say in
their confession before their dying; but thank be to
Almighty God! they failed of their purpose; but always
they make great mortality of people.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Yet again Sir John has marvels of other countries,
where are men who—“when their friends be sick they
hang them upon trees, and say that it is better that birds
that be angels of God eat them, than the foul worms of
the earth.”</p>
<p class='c012'>And near by is the isle of Calonak, where gardeners
would indeed be evily distressed by reason of the snail—“that
be so great, that many persons may lodge them in
their shells, as men would do in a little house.”</p>
<p class='c012'>By taking ship Sir John goes from isle to isle discussing
the sights, and arrives at length at an isle where—“be
white hens without feathers, but they bear white wool as
sheep do here”; and he passes by Cassay, of the
greatest cities of the world, and goes from that city by
water to an abbey of monks.</p>
<div id='o192' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_192.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A ROSE GARDEN IN BERKSHIRE.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>
<h2 class='c006'>VIII<br /> <br />OF THE ABBEY GARDEN</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>“From that city men go by water, solacing and disporting
them, till they come to an abbey of monks that is fast
by, that be good religious men after their faith and law.</p>
<p class='c012'>“In that abbey is a great garden and fair, where be
many trees of diverse manner of fruits. And in this
garden is a little hill full of delectable trees. In that hill
and in that garden be many diverse beasts, as of apes,
marmosets, baboons, and many other diverse beasts. And
every day, when the convent of this abbey hath eaten, the
almoner let bear the relief to the garden, and he smiteth
on the garden gate with a clicket of silver that he holdeth
in his hand; and anon all the beasts of the hill and of the
diverse places of the garden come out a 3,000 or a 4,000;
and they come in guise of poor men, and men give them
the relief in fair vessels of silver, clean over-gilt. And
when they have eaten, the monk smiteth efftsoons on
the garden gate with the clicket, and then anon all the
beasts return again to their places that they come from.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And they say that these beasts be souls of worthy
men that resemble in likeness of those beasts that be fair,
and therefore they give them meat for the love of God;
and the other beasts that be foul, they say be souls of
poor men and of rude commons.”</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>Many other marvels did Sir John see, of which I shall
not tell; but he writes always with his eye open and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>easy for miracles, and talks as a gardener talks of strange
flowers and fruit, as of gourds that when they be ripe—“men
cut them a-two, and men find within a little beast,
in flesh, and bone and blood, as though it were a little
lamb without wool. And men eat both the fruit and
the beast. And that is a great marvel.” Then he writes
of the wonders of the country of Prester John, and of
trees there that men dare not eat of the fruit—“for it is
a thing of faerie.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Of Gatholonabes, he writes, and of the sham Garden of
Eden he made, and of the birds that—“sing full delectably
and moved by craft.” The fairest garden any man
might behold it was. And of the men and girls clothed
in cloths of gold full richly, that he said were angels.</p>
<p class='c012'>And of Paradise he cannot speak, making towards the
end of the book confession.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Of Paradise ne can I not speak properly. For I was
not there. It is far beyond. And that forthinketh
me. And also I was not worthy.”</p>
<p class='c012'>And so, after a little more, ends Sir John, and so I end,
though I love him. Yet I doubt some of his stories.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>
<h2 class='c006'>IX<br /> <br />THE OLYMPIAN ASPECT</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>There are many ways of regarding a garden of flowers;
from the utilitarian view it is a reasonable method of
utilising a space of ground for horticultural purposes, but
I prefer to take the Olympian view and quote from “The
Poet’s Geography,” to the effect that a garden of flowers
is—“A collection of dreams surrounded by clouds.”</p>
<p class='c012'>At first sight the somewhat expansive imagery of this
definition might appear over-vague and unsatisfactory
where a very definite question, like a garden of flowers,
is concerned. But, come to see it in a lofty light, and at
once its truth stands clear. A garden is the proper
adjunct of a house, and a house, fully said, is a dream
come true, yet still surrounded by the clouds of infinite
possibilities. It is always growing, is a true home.
Like a flower it expands to every sweet whisper of the
wind. Like a flower it shuts at night, or opens to accept
the dew. It is something so elusive that only the garlands
of love hold it together.</p>
<p class='c012'>The garden, to the real house, is, like the dwelling, a
place of the most subtle fancies. Every flower there,
every tree and each blade of grass holds mystery and
imagination. The Gods walk there.</p>
<p class='c012'>The flower beds (accepting the Olympian idea) are not
mere collections of flowering herbage, but are volumes of
poetry growing in the sun. Take your hedge of Sweet
Peas, for example, and tell me what they are—no—tell
<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>me who they are. There is a dream there if you like;
and while you look at them, and sniff them delicately, is
not the fussy world shut off from you by clouds. Sweet
Peas are like a bevy of winsome girls all in their everyday
frocks, scented by an odour of virginity, something indescribably
refined after the manner of the flesh, and
something lofty in their removal from the earth after the
way of the spirit. I wonder how many people feel this.</p>
<p class='c012'>Take it more broadly in the true Olympian spirit.
Take it that a house and garden is an Olympus to each
man and woman who is happy, and you will see that your
heaven for all its head in the clouds has its feet upon the
earth. Then what do the flowers mean? Lilies with
pale faces like a procession of nuns. Roses all queens of
regal beauty. Violets to whom the thrushes sing, deny
it if you dare. Majestic Peonies. The plants of soft
and courtly wisdom, Thyme, Rosemary, Myrtle. Lavender,
the House-dame, prim, neat, beloved of bees and
butterflies, Quakerishly dressed in grey with a touch of
unsectarian colour, yet vaguely an ecclesiastical purple;
rather slim, with full skirts, with the suggestion that
Cowslips are her bunches of keys, and the Dandelion her
clock.</p>
<p class='c012'>One could go on for ever.</p>
<p class='c012'>And then the gardener, like those half-immortals who
worked for the gods, or some like a god of old, even, with
god-like grumbles, and god-like simplicity.</p>
<p class='c012'>They are a strange race, these gardeners, given to
unexpected meals, and sudden appearances.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Walter!”</p>
<p class='c012'>And after that, from some fragrant bush, or waving
forest of Asparagus, a bronzed man stands erect, as if he
had sprung from the bowels of the earth, where he had
been contemplating the mysteries of human weakness.</p>
<p class='c012'>And how amazed they are with us and our foibles and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>follies. We remonstrate—a question of weeds, perhaps,—and
are listened to with incredulous wonder.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Weeds!” says the being, “weeds!”</p>
<p class='c012'>He emerges more completely from the bush, showing a
hand occupied with a lot of little twigs, and a knife rather
like himself to look at—not too sharp.</p>
<p class='c012'>As if a voice from the unknown had wafted over the
desert, he stands in wonder, looking reproachfully at
those who have interrupted his toil.</p>
<p class='c012'>“The weather makes them grow.” Of course it does.
We knew that. We did not come here to call Walter
to ask him what made weeds grow, but to know why he
had not weeded, at our special request, the Carnation
border.</p>
<p class='c012'>From a cavernous pocket in a much-mended pair of
trousers of a shape never designed by mortal hands, he
produces a quantity of felt strips, and some wall nails.</p>
<p class='c012'>We repeat our original suggestion, that the Carnation
border is choked with weeds.</p>
<p class='c012'>“So it be!”</p>
<p class='c012'>Then, after the great being has taken observations of
the sky, causing him to screw up one eye and wag his
head sagely as if he had communication with the unseen
powers, he admits that he has been watering the greenhouse.</p>
<p class='c012'>“The Vines take a deal o’time about now.”</p>
<p class='c012'>It would be useless to remark to this calm person that
we found, only yesterday, a dozen plants dying in the
greenhouse, and all for want of water. But, from a sort
of foolhardy courage, we do say as much.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Yes,” says the immortal, “they need a power of
water. A good drop is no good.”</p>
<p class='c012'>We venture to remonstrate with him, saying, in a few
well chosen words, that it would be useful of him, then,
to give them “a good watering while he was about it.”</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>He agrees at once. “It would do them a power of
good.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Realising that we are drifting from the main grievance,
we return hot to the bed of Carnations. We admit to
having but just this moment come from weeding them
ourselves, and in so saying we hope to make appeal to his
better nature. Nothing of the kind.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I noticed,” he says, “you sp’iled some of the layers
where you’d a-been treading.”</p>
<p class='c012'>When we have turned away defeated, he sinks again to
his mysterious task, and it seems that the ground swallows
him.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then again, in the early morning, he seems to have had
overnight talks with Mercury, or Apollo, or whoever it is
who arranges the weather, as he invariably greets us with
some curt sentence.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Rain afore noon,” or “Wind’ll be in the nor’west
afore night.” Thereby giving us to understand that
he has been given a glass of nectar in some lower servants’
hall in Olympus, and has picked up the gossip of what
Jupiter has decreed for the day. We feel, as he intends
us to feel, vastly inferior. In fact we have given way to
a habit of asking his advice on certain points, which has
proved fatal.</p>
<p class='c012'>He doles out our fruit to us just as he likes, and we feel
quite guilty when we pick one of our own peaches from
our own walls.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I see you pick a peach last night,” he says. “’Tisn’t
for me to say anything, but I was countin’ on giving you
a nice dish <span class='fss'>NEXT</span> week.”</p>
<p class='c012'>What is there to do but hang one’s head, and plead
guilty?</p>
<p class='c012'>Boys are his pet aversion. Whether boys have in
some way a fellowship with the gods (which I suspect),
or whether they are victoriously antagonistic, it matters
<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>not. They are to the gardener so many creatures whom
he classes along with snails, bullfinches, rabbits and wasps
as “varmints.”</p>
<p class='c012'>One can hear him sometimes invoking a god of the
name of Gum. “By Gum! them young varmints a-been
’ere again. By Gum!”</p>
<p class='c012'>He then makes an offering to this god in the shape of a
bonfire, the smell of which is more than most scents for
wonder.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is when Walter makes a bonfire that he is more god-like
than ever. He stands, a thick figure, deep in the
chest, broad in the shoulder, by the pile of dead leaves,
twigs, and garden rubbish, the smoke enveloping him in
misty wreaths, and the sun flashing on his fork as he
pitches fresh fuel on the smouldering fire. A tongue of
flame, greedily licking up leaves and dry sticks, lights on
his impassive face, and a quivering orange streak along
the muscles of his arms. We are fascinated by his arms.
They contain, I believe, the history of his mortal life and
ambitions, and are a key to his hidden emotions.</p>
<p class='c012'>On one arm is a ship under full sail, done in blue and
red tattoo. Below the ship is the word “Jane”; below
that is a twist of rope. On the other arm is a heart, the
initials S.M., and an anchor.</p>
<p class='c012'>When we were young these two arms of Walter’s were
an entire literature to us. We read him first, I think,
a pirate, very grim and horrible, and we translated “S.M.”
as Spanish Main. A little later we dropped the idea of
the pirate, and took to the notion that Walter had been
(if he was not still) a smuggler who landed cargoes of rum
from the good ship “Jane,” and deposited them with the
landlord of the “Saucy Mariner.” It is noticeable that
we left out the heart in all these romances. Then, at
some impressionable moment, Walter became a seaman
who had given his heart to Sarah Mainwaring, which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>name we got from a man who had given us a dog, and in
spite of that we accepted it as fact. I think we once
descended so low as to think that the whole thing had no
nautical significance, and was a secret sign of some
terrible society who met for purposes of revenge. This,
of course, was the result of contemporary reading.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then came the great day upon which Walter was
definitely asked what the signs and pictures on his arms
did mean.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Mind out,” was all the answer we got, and Walter
retired with the wheelbarrow to his citadel—the potting
shed.</p>
<p class='c012'>It was tried again a little later, and this time met with
a little better response, because, I suppose, we had done
more than half his day’s work for him.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I had them done at a fair.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“And,” we asked breathlessly, “what was the ship?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Two shillin’s,” he replied, “and I never regretted it.
Money well spent.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Was she your ship?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Mine?” said the god.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Was she the ship you were in when you were a
sailor?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Me?” said Walter. “I aint never been a sailor.”</p>
<p class='c012'>The blow was crushing. We retired hurt, amazed,
incredulous.</p>
<p class='c012'>One day we tried the remaining arm, the one with
S.M., the heart, and the anchor emblazoned on it.</p>
<p class='c012'>“What does S.M. mean?”</p>
<p class='c012'>It was a moment of terrific suspense. We had
drawn a mental picture of some wonderful creature,
half Princess, half like a schoolgirl, we sighed after.
The god was tying Carnations to wire spirals, and his
expression was limited, since he had a knife in his mouth.</p>
<p class='c012'>“S.M. on me arm,” he said, removing the knife.</p>
<div id='o201' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_201.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A SHEPHERD OF CONISTON.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>We nodded mysteriously, full of breathless expectation.</p>
<p class='c012'>Walter began to smile. He stood up and surveyed
us with his face alight with the memory of some great
day. To us he looked an heroic figure, even despite
the pieces of old drawing-room carpet tied to his knees
with string, and his very unkempt beard.</p>
<p class='c012'>“You won’t exactly understand,” he said, mopping
his forehead. “But I tell ’ee if you’ve got to mind
some-at after a day at a fair, you’d be fair mazed.
I give my word to my mother as I’d a-put sixpence
in a raffle for to try to win her a sewing machine, and
so when the fellow was making they images on my arm,
I sed to un, I sed, put me S.M., I sed, so’s I’ll mind to
put in the sewing machine raffle, I sed, or else if so
be as I don’t I shall get a slice of tongue pie when I
do get home along.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Our faces fell. Our hearts, full of romance, now
became like lead. In despair we put the last question,
a forlorn hope in the storming of his heart’s citadel.</p>
<p class='c012'>“And the other thing on your arms, Walter? The
heart.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Cooriosity killed a monkey,” said he. “Mind out,
I’m going round the corners.”</p>
<p class='c012'>So was our romance killed. “Going round the
corners,” was Walter’s sign that all conversation was
closed.</p>
<p class='c012'>If one followed him “round the corners,” talk as
one might, Walter directed all his conversation to the
flowers. To hear him address the plants in the green-house
was to think him indeed a god, who by some
magic spell turned the water in the can into a life-saving
potion. To-day we think that much of the
soliloquy was done for our especial benefit.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Just a wee drop, my pretty,” he would say to some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>flower. “Just a drink with lunch. That’s right.
Perk up now. By Gum, you do want your drop regular,
you ’ardened teetotaler. Hello, hello, what’s up with
you? Looks to me as if a snail had bided along o’ you
too frequent.”</p>
<p class='c012'>His great hand, covered with ancient scars, would
lift the leaves tenderly, and search beneath for the
offending snail which, when found, would be held up
to view.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Five-and-twenty tailors!” he would exclaim.</p>
<p class='c012'>He would be instantly corrected. “Four-and-twenty.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“You got your history wrong,” he used to say.</p>
<p class='c012'>We repeated</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Four-and-twenty tailors went to catch a snail,</div>
<div class='line'>And the best man among them dare not touch his tail.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>“Come the twenty-fifth,” Walter added. “That
be I. So here goes, Master Snail.”</p>
<p class='c012'>With that the snail was sharply crushed underfoot,
and the soliloquy continued. He is with us still, older
in years, younger than ever in heart, with the same
immortal personality, the same atmosphere of friendship
with the gods about him. He listens to orders with
a smile of amusement, just as if he had been laughing
about our ways only an hour before with some inhabitant
of an unseen world. He carried his own peculiar
atmosphere with him of indulgent superiority and
warm-heartedness combined, just as the tortoise carries
his house on his back. If that story is unknown by
any chance, here it is.</p>
<h3 class='c017'><span class='sc'>Jupiter’s Wedding</span></h3>
<p class='c018'>When the toy had once taken Jupiter in the head to
enter into a state of matrimony, he resolved for the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>honour of his Celestial Lady, that the whole world
should keep a Festival upon the day of his marriage,
and so invited all living creatures, Tag-Rag and Bob-Tail,
to the solemnity of his wedding. They all came
in very good time, saving only the Tortoise. Jupiter
told him ’twas ill done to make the Company stay,
and asked him, “Why so late?” “Why truly,”
says the Tortoise, “I was at home, at my own House,
my dearly beloved House,” and House is Home, let
it be never so Homely. Jupiter took it very ill at
his hands, that he should think himself better in a Ditch
than in a Palace, and so he passed this Judgment upon
him: that since he would not be persuaded to come
out of his House upon that occasion, he should never
stir abroad again from that Day forward without his
House upon his head.</p>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>This, as may be seen at once, is the Olympian aspect
not only of the house, but of the garden as well. We
mortals do carry our Homes with us, breathing a closer,
less free air than the air of Olympus, when the reigning
monarch has merely to take a toy in the head to enter
into a state of matrimony. We, tortoise-like, are bound
and tied by a thousand pleasant associations to our
plot of earth and our patch of stars. Sooner than
attend the ceremonies of the greatest, we linger by
our house and in our garden, so that though we may not
boast with the great world and say that we know
“Dear old Jove,” or “that charming wife of his,
Juno,” still we know that we live on the slopes of
Olympus, and have a number of charming flowers for
society.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>
<h2 class='c006'>X<br /> <br />EVENING RED AND MORNING GREY</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>Your old-fashioned man with a care to his garden will
look through the quarrel of his window to spy weather
signs. This quarrel, the lozenge-pane of a window
made criss-cross, shows in its narrow frame a deal of
Nature’s business, day and night. For your gardener
it takes the part of club window, weather glass and eye
hole onto his world. Through it day and night he
reviews the sky and the trees, the wind, the moon
and the stars. When he rises betimes there’s the sky
for him to read. When he returns for his tea there
in the pane is the sunset framed. When he goes to
bed the moon rides past and the friendly stars twinkle.</p>
<p class='c012'>No man is asked his opinion of the weather so much
as the gardener, except, may be, the shepherd; both
men having, as it were, a Professorship in weather
given to them by the Public. It is they who have
given rise to, or even, perhaps, invented the rhymes by
which they go.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Evening red and morning grey,</div>
<div class='line'>Send the traveller on his way;</div>
<div class='line'>But evening grey and morning red,</div>
<div class='line'>Send the traveller wet to bed.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>There is a verse full of ripe experience. The evening
sun glows red through the lozenge-panes and into
the cottage, lights up with sparks of crimson fire the
silver lustre ornaments, makes the furniture shine again,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>gives the brass candlesticks a finger lick of fire, shines
ruddy on the tablecloth, and flashes back a friendly
scarlet message from the square of looking-glass. On
the deep window ledge stand a row of ruddled flower
pots in which fine geraniums grow, behind them a tidy
muslin curtain stretches across the window on a tape,
on the sides of the window are hung a photograph or
two, an almanac, and a picture cut from a seed catalogue,
above hangs a canary in a small cage. Only
the narrowest slip of window is clear, not more than
one clear pane, and it is through this that the evening
sun streams into the cottage room. In the morning
when our friend rises, if he finds the room flooded
with a clear grey light, a light matching the silver lustre
jugs, then he quotes his verse, to be sure, and passing his
neighbour says, “A fine day, to-day.”</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>2</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>A rainbow in the morning</div>
<div class='line'>Is the shepherd’s warning</div>
<div class='line'>But a rainbow at night</div>
<div class='line'>Is the shepherd’s delight.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>That sign is for the shepherd and the traveller by
night, since no ordinary being is expected to watch for
rainbows by night to the detriment of his night’s rest
and his morning temper. But the shepherd must keep
a keen eye to such signs, and marks, day and night, all
the little movements of Nature, to learn her whims. As
for instance, the signs of bad weather to come:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>1</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That swallows will fly low and swiftly when the upper air is
charged with moisture for then insects fly low also.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>2</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That the cricket will sing sharply.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>This last, of course, in wet countries, for in dry
places, as in meadows under southern mountains, there
is a perfect orchestra of rasping crickets in the grass.
But in the north, on the most silent and golden days,
they say that the chirrup of a cricket foretells rain.
Just as they say:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>3</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>As hedgehogs do foresee evening storms</div>
<div class='line'>So wise men are for fortune still prepared.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>This they say, because the story runs that a hedgehog
builds a nest with the opening made to face the
mildest quarter thereabout, and the back to the most
prevalent wind.</p>
<p class='c012'>Again, and this a sign everybody knows:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>4</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That distant hills look near.</p>
<p class='c012'>As indeed they do before rain, and many times one
hears—“such a place is too clear to-day”—or, “One
can see such a land much too well,” and this means
near rain.</p>
<p class='c012'>Like the swallows so do rooks change their flight
before rain, and so, also, do plover, for it is noticed:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>5</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That rooks will glide low on the wind, and drop quickly.
And plover fly in shape almost as a kite and will not rise
high, one or two of the flock being posted sentinels at the
tail of the kite formation.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then, if the shepherd is near to a dew-pit, or any
water meadow, or passing by a roadside ditch he will
notice:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>6</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That toads will walk out across the road. And frogs will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>change colour before a storm, losing their bright green and
turning to a dun brown.</p>
<p class='c012'>To all of these signs with their significance of coming
rain your shepherd will give a proper prominence in his
mind, marking one, and then searching for another
until he is certain. His first clue on any hilly ground is:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>7</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That sheep will not wander into the uplands but keep
browsing in the plain.</p>
<p class='c012'>Having taken note of this he turns to plants, particularly
to his own weather glass, the Scarlet Pimpernel,
as he sees:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>8</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That the Pimpernel closes her eye. That the down will
fly from off the dandelion, the colts-foot, and from thistles
though there be no wind.</p>
<p class='c012'>Of night signs there are many, but chiefly:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>9</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That glowworms shine very bright.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>10</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That the new moon with the old moon in her lap comes before
rain.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>11</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>That if the rainbow comes at night</div>
<div class='line'>Then the rain is gone quite.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>12</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Near bur, far rain.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>This of the bur, or halo, to be seen at times about the
moon.</p>
<p class='c012'>For a last thing they say:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>13</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>On Candlemas Day if the sun shines clear,</div>
<div class='line'>The shepherd had rather see his wife on the bier.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>Our friend, the weather-wise gardener,—and, by the
way, there is the unkind saying:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Weatherwise, foolish otherwise—</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>has several things in his neighbourhood to tell him of
coming rain, as:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>1</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That heliotrope and marigold flowers close their petals.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>2</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That ducks will make a loud and insistent quacking.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>3</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That—so they say—the cat will sit by the fire and clean her
whiskers.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>4</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That the tables and chairs will creak.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>5</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That dogs will eat grass.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>6</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c013'>That moles will heave.</p>
<p class='c012'>In the garden he too will observe the birds, more
especially that pert friend to all gardeners, the robin.
For they say:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>If the robin sings in the bush</div>
<div class='line'>Then the weather will be coarse;</div>
<div class='line'>But if the robin sings in the barn</div>
<div class='line'>Then the weather will be warm.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div id='o208' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_208.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A DOVECOTE IN A SUSSEX GARDEN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>I must confess that I have not found this come
true of robins, any more than I have found waterwag-tails
coming on the lawn to be a harbinger of rain, or that
thrushes eat more snails than worms in the dry season.
Of this last I get enjoyment enough, for there is a stone
in my garden to which the fat thrushes come dragging
snails. They give them a mighty heave, and down
come the snails, “crack” on the stone, until the shell
is burst asunder and the delicious morsel is down Master
Thrush’s gullet in the twinkling of an eye. The thrush
is certainly my favourite garden bird, both for his looks
and his song, and the blackbird I like least, for they
are bundles of nerves, screaming away at the slightest
suggestion of danger. The robin is a fine impudent
fellow and friendly in a truly greedy way, following the
smallest suggestion of digging with an eye for a good
dinner, so that if you are only pulling the earth up in
weeding you will have the brisk little gentleman at
your elbow, head cocked on one side, and an eye of the
greatest intelligence sharply fixed on you. Pigeons
I regard as an absolute nuisance, their voices sentimental
to a degree, in this way quite at variance with their
selfish, greedy and destructive characters. So they say:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>If the pigeons go a benting</div>
<div class='line'>Then the farmers lie lamenting.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Starlings are very handsome birds but as they live
in congregations, or like regiments, one can have no
personal feeling for them, though I love to watch them
on winter evenings when they come in thousands from
the fields and fly to their roosting place, making the air
rustle with the quick beat of their wings.</p>
<p class='c012'>The bullfinch is a gardener’s enemy, for he will strip
the fruit buds from a tree out of pure wantonness, and
yet he is a brave bird and nice to see about.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>All the small birds give one joy though they be
robbers or enemies to young plants, or bee eaters like
the blue-tit, or strawberry robbers, or drainpipe chokers
like the house-sparrows, or murderers of the summer
peace like the woodpecker with his quick insistent
“tap, tap.”</p>
<p class='c012'>In royal and fine gardens, of course, one must have
two birds; the peacock and the owl, for these two
give all the air of romance needful, though I have
never myself regarded the peacock as a King of
birds, for he makes too much of a show of himself, and
his wife is a humble creature. I feel, rather, that he is
a courtier strutting up and down waiting the King’s
pleasure; a place-seeker, one who will cheer the side
that pays. As for the owl, that dusky guardian of
secrets, he is a far more solid and trustworthy fellow
than the gay peacock, and though he snores in the daytime,
his great round yellow eyes are open at the least
sound in his haunt.</p>
<p class='c012'>This is far afield from the weather, so let us give the
remaining saying of birds that the gardener may notice.</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>November ice that bears a duck</div>
<div class='line'>Brings a winter of slush and muck.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>That I hold to be very true.</p>
<p class='c012'>There are still one or two rhymes that should be well
noted, three of the rain.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>1</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>When it rains before seven</div>
<div class='line'>It will cease before eleven.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>2</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>March dry, good rye</div>
<div class='line'>April wet, good wheat.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>3</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>If the ash before the oak</div>
<div class='line'>Then we are in for a soak.</div>
<div class='line'>But if the oak before the ash</div>
<div class='line'>We shall get off with a splash.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Then they say:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in2'>Between twelve and two</div>
<div class='line'>You’ll see what the day will do.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>And again:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Cut your thistles before St. John</div>
<div class='line'>You will have two to every one.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>And,</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>The grass that grows in Janiveer</div>
<div class='line'>Grows no more all the year.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>And also:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>That flower seeds sown on Palm Sunday will come up double.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr class='c016' />
<p class='c012'>These are all very well, and what with one thing
and another will come true, at least as true as the
rhyme that says:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>A mackerel sky</div>
<div class='line'>Is very wet, or very dry.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Still it is really to the wind that the gardener looks
most, and if he have a weathercock in his garden (which
with a sundial, a rain gauge, and an outside thermometer
he should always have) he will note each turn of
the wind. If he has no weathercock then he will read
the wind by the smoke of chimneys, or the turn of the
leaves of trees.</p>
<p class='c012'>And, after regarding the wind, he may remember this:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>When it rains with the wind in the east,</div>
<div class='line'>It rains for twenty four hours at least.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>And this also:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>When the wind is in the south,</div>
<div class='line'>’Tis in the rain’s mouth;</div>
<div class='line'>When the wind is in the east</div>
<div class='line'>’Tis neither good for man nor beast.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>This weather lore is naturally gleaned out of many
years, some of the sayings being of real antiquity,
others, perhaps, newly coined, though I fancy not. In
spite of them you will find every gardener has a different
manner of reading the sky and the wind, some having
it that mares-tails in the sky come after great storms,
others that they are the portent of a gale. Some, if
asked will reply to a question on the weather:</p>
<p class='c012'>“With these frostises o’ nights, and the wind veered
roun’ apint west, and taking into consideration the
time o’ year, and the bad harvest”—then follows
a long look into the heavens—“I don’t say but what
’er won’t rain, but then again, I dunno, perhaps come
the breeze keeps off, us mighten have quite a tidy drop.”
This you are at liberty to translate which way you
choose, since the advice is generally followed by a
portentous wink, or, at least, some motion of an eyelid
curiously like it.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>
<h2 class='c006'>XI<br /> <br />GARDEN PROMISES</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>It is Winter, and when it is winter the earth is very
secret, but it lies like pie-crust promises waiting to be
broken. A little graveyard of the tombs of seeds and
bulbs spreads before one’s eyes. Each tomb has a
nice headstone of white with the name of the buried
life below written upon it. The virtues of the buried
are not written in so many words, but their names
suffice for that. In my imagination I see my graveyard
like this:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>HERE LIES BURIED</div>
<div>A</div>
<div>ROSE COLOURED TULIP</div>
<div>WHO CAME ACROSS THE SEAS</div>
<div>FROM THE KINGDOM</div>
<div>OF</div>
<div>HOLLAND</div>
<div>UNDER THIS EARTH</div>
<div>SHE</div>
<div>AND ONE HUNDRED OF HER SISTERS</div>
<div>ARE WAITING FOR THE SPRING</div>
<div>WHEN THEY WILL UNFOLD THEMSELVES</div>
<div>FROM THEIR LONG SLEEP AND ADORN</div>
<div>WITH THEIR PLEASANT FACES THE SOUTH</div>
<div>BORDER FACING THE STUDY WINDOW</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>That I see most clearly written over the spot where I
tucked the hundred and one beautiful sisters in their
bed of rich brown earth, and I am looking for the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>time when the graveyard shall begin to be green with
the shafts of their first leaves. Besides these, there
are the headsticks to the Carnations, but this patch
of the graveyard is different since the tufts of Carnation
grass make long grey lines against the brown
earth. Somewhere, in each of these grey tufts, is
hidden the beautiful germ of life that is growing,
growing all the time, and the wonderful chemical process
is at work there (for all the plants look so silent
and quiet), that is mixing colours and rejecting colours,
and is secreting wax, and preparing perfume. Of all
moments in a garden this is to me the most wonderful.
No glory of colour or variety of shape; no pageant
of ripe Summer, or tender early day of Spring appeals
to me quite in the way this silent time does, when a
thousand unseen forces are at work. I have often
wondered (being quite ignorant of the chemical side
of this) what happens to that drop of fresh colour the
bee brings like a careless artist flicking a brush. Sometimes
in a Carnation of pure white, one flower, or two,
will show a crimson streak—a sport, one calls it. But
more curious still is the fringe edge of the Picotee. How,
I have often asked myself, does the colour edge find
its way to its proper place? How does the plant
manage to produce just enough of that one colour to
go round each of its flowers? I have stood by a row
of these plants that I have just planted in some new
bed, and wondered at the amazing industry going on
within them. They are fighting disease, supplying
themselves with proper nourishment, mixing colours,
and building buds and stems. It is a regular dockyard
of a place except that there is no sound. I imagine
(quite wrongly, but merely because an instinct causes
me to do so) a lot of orderly forces like little drilled
men hard at work in green-grey suits. Those who
<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>work underground are not in green but are in white,
but should they go above the surface they would change
colour owing to contact with the light, and this is due
to the presence of a matter called chlorophyll in the
cells which gives plants their green colour.</p>
<p class='c012'>The underground workers are hard at it always,
getting water from the ground, and in this water are
gases and minerals dissolved. The workmen send
this up to those in the leaves. Those who work in the
leaves are taking in supplies of carbonic acid gas from
the air, and the leaves themselves are so formed as to
get as much light as possible on one surface. When
the light meets with the carbonic acid gas in the leaves
starch is formed. This is distributed through the plant
to the actual builders.</p>
<p class='c012'>You stand over the row of Carnations all silent,
all still, and yet here is this tremendous activity going
on, building, distributing, selecting, rejecting. A
thousand workmen making a flower.</p>
<p class='c012'>The two sets of workers, in the roots and leaves, the
one sending up water and nitrogenous matter, the other
making starch, are manufacturing albumenoids for
more building material. And it is more easy to think
of such creatures at work since a plant, unlike an
animal, has no stomach, or heart, or bloodvessels, and
its food is liquid and gaseous.</p>
<p class='c012'>Now of these marvels the greatest is that of the
existence of life in the plant on exactly the same initial
principles as the existence of life in man. That is the
substance known as the protoplasm. It is too amazing
for me, and too great a thing to be dealt with here,
but, as I look at my silent dockyard, there are these
protoplasms, in the cells of these plants, dividing into
halves and, so to speak, nestling with fresh cells in walls
of cellulose.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>Think of the work actually going on beneath our
eyes in the one matter of the starch factory in the plant,
where the chlorophyll (the green colouring matter)
separates the carbon from the carbonic acid, returns
the oxygen to the air, and mingles the carbon and the
oxygen and the hydrogen in the water and so makes this
starch.</p>
<p class='c012'>All this goes on when we open our windows of a
morning and look out over the garden and see just a grey
line of Carnations we planted over-night. The workers
at the roots who are so busily engaged in sending up
water, are also sending with it all those things the plant
needs that they can get from the earth. Thus the
water may contain iron, nitrogen, sulphur, and potash.
All that goes from the roots to the leaves is called
sap. This, when it comes to the leaves and all parts
of the plant exposed to the light, transpires, and so
keeps the plant cool.</p>
<p class='c012'>The stem, on which the supreme work, the flower,
will be born, is, in the case of our Carnations, divided
into nodes and internodes, the nodes being those solid
elbows one sees. It is towards the supreme work
that our eyes are turned. It is part, if not chief part,
of the pleasure of our vigil to look forward to the day
when the first faint colour shows in the bursting bud.
It is for this moment that we wait and wear out the
chill of Winter. It is towards the idea of a resurrection
that our thoughts, perhaps unconsciously, are fixed,
to the knowledge that our garden is to be born again,
fresh and new in colour, in warmth and sunshine. The
very secret workings going on before our eyes, all that
Heavenly workshop where none are ’prentices and all
are master-hands, where the bee, and the ant, and the
unseen insect in the air, go about their exact duties,
give one, as Autumn declines into Winter and Winter
<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>rouses into Spring, some vague conjecture of the mighty
magic of the growing world, where no particle of energy is
ever wasted.</p>
<div id='o217' class='figcenter id014'>
<img src='images/opp_217.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A NORTHAMPTONSHIRE GARDEN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Life in the Winter takes on this aspect of waiting
wonderment. While the rivers are in flood, and the
fields are ruled with silver lines where the ditches are
full, and the Sun uses them for a mirror; while the
gulls are driven inland and follow the plough, and the
starlings congregate in the open fields, we prepare
our pageant of flowers against those days when the
slumber of the earth is over, and the now purple hedgerows
are alive with tender green. St. Francis of Assisi
impressed the very sentiment on his friars, in bidding
them make scented gardens of flower-bearing herbs to
remind them of Him who is called “The Lily of the
Valley,” and “The Flower of the World.”</p>
<p class='c012'>So goes my workshop through the winter days, while
a few pale ghosts of late Roses linger on the trees, sighing
doubtless to themselves, like old gentlemen—“Ah,
I remember this place before Autumn pulled down all
the green leaves, and long before all that ground was
laid out for seed plots.” And all the while my Roses
are growing and, could one see into the colour chambers
of the trees, into those wonderful studios hidden in the
tiny cells, one would see these artists at work rivalling
the blush of morning, the flames of fire, the white soul
of innocence, the crimson of king’s robes, and the
orange flush of sunset. There are men, I suppose,
who know to a certain extent how the secretion of
these wonderful colours is arranged; why this or that
colour runs to flush a petal to the edge, or stays to
dye only the flower’s heart. But it will ever be a
marvel to me to see how these veins flow crimson,
those hold orange, and those again hold a rich yellow.
The work that creates the colour of a Pansy, that gives
<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>to the Sweet Peas those soft tints, that shapes and
colours the trumpet flower of the Convolvulus, and
builds the long horn of the sweet-scented Eglantine,
gives one a joy to which few joys are equal, and a
feeling of security with the great unknown things by
which life is encompassed.</p>
<p class='c012'>Looking again at the garden of promises, and thinking
of it still as a graveyard with headstones, I see
one which is, to me, particularly pleasant. It is by
an old bush of lavender, the mother bush of my long
hedge; I read it to be written like this:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>HERE LIES</div>
<div>IMPRISONED IN THIS GREY BUSH</div>
<div>THE SCENT OF</div>
<div>LAVENDER</div>
<div>IT IS RENOWNED FOR A SIMPLE PURITY</div>
<div>A SWEET FRAGRANCE AND A SUBTLE</div>
<div>STRENGTH IT IS THE ODOUR OF</div>
<div>THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES AND THE</div>
<div>SYMBOLIC PERFUME OF A QUIET LIFE</div>
<div>RAIN</div>
<div>SHALL WEEP OVER THIS BUSH</div>
<div>SUN</div>
<div>SHALL GIVE IT WARM KISSES</div>
<div>WIND</div>
<div>SHALL STIR THE TALL SPIKES</div>
<div>UNTIL SUCH TIME AS IS REQUIRED</div>
<div>WHEN IT SHALL FLOWER AND SO</div>
<div>YIELD TO US ITS SECRET</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>There stands the bush all neatly tied, its venerable
head at the moment covered with a powdering of fine
snow, and round it the first sharp spears of Crocus
leaves show, and the fat buds of Snowdrops, and the
ready bud of the yellow Aconite. All the garden is
waiting, the Pea-sticks are prepared, the paths have
been cleaned, and I am waiting and watching the little
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>things. The trees even now are whispering that it
will soon be Spring, for all they look from a distance
like a collection of dried and pressed roots sticking up
in the air, how they are drawn in purple ink against
the sky; but one day my eyes will see a faint haze over
them as if a little mist hung about them and was caught
in the branches, and then they will change so quietly
that it is impossible to tell quite when they began to
look like very delicate green feathers, and then they
will change so suddenly that it is a shock to one’s eyes
to find them in a full flush of sticky bud and leaf, and
one says in accents of delighted surprise, “Why, the
trees are out!”</p>
<p class='c012'>Not every one takes pleasure in a garden during the
Winter time, many regarding it as a chill and a desolate
place in itself, and taking only an interest in the green-houses
and the Violet frames; and few would find a
pleasure in washing flower-pots by the dozen on a
rainy day, and in putting fresh ashes on the paths, and
in banking up Celery. But to the keen gardener every
inch of work in his garden is full of interest, he realises
the daily value of each thing he does, he knows of that
great silent work that is going on so near him, and so
enjoys even the burnishing of a spade, the rolling of
lawns, and loves, as I think every one does, the surgical
work of pruning the fruit trees.</p>
<p class='c012'>Then, when the promise is fulfilled, and the world
is full of green and colour, the wondrous alchemy of the
Winter months shows its result in the glorious painting
of the flowers of Spring and Summer.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>
<h2 class='c006'>XII<br /> <br />GARDEN PATHS</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>You can get no symbol finer than a path, no symbol
is more used. Of necessity a path must begin somewhere
and have a destination. Of necessity it must
cross certain country, overcome obstacles, or go round
them. By nature you come at new views from a path
and so obtain fresh suggestions. A path entails labour,
and by labour ease. It must have a purpose, and so
must originate in an inspiration. And yet the man
who makes a path ignores, as a rule, the high importance
of his task.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is a peculiar thing that paths made across fields,
and made by the very people whose business it is to
reach from point to point in the shortest possible time,
are never straight. Their very irregularities reflect
the nature of man more than the nature of the ground
they cross.</p>
<p class='c012'>So unmethodical is man by instinct that if he were
to lay out a garden in the same frame of mind in which
he crosses a field, that garden would abound in twisted,
tortuous paths, beds of irregular shapes, spasmodic
arrangements of trees, flowers, shrubs and vegetables,
a veritable hotch-potch. To overcome that he imprisons
the wanderings of his mind, divides his garden
into regular shapes, and drives his paths pell-mell
from point to point as straight as his eye and a line
will allow him. This planning of a garden is an absorbing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>joy. To come new to a fresh place untouched by any
other hand and to work your will on it gives one all the
delights of conquest, and the pleasant fatigue of a war
in which you are bound to win. You can make your
own traditions, founding them for future ages—as,
for instance, you may so plant your trees as to force
one view on the attention. You can emulate Rome
and carry your paths straight and level. In fact, that
little new world is yours to conquer.</p>
<p class='c012'>To me a winding path offers the more alluring prospect,
just as it is more pleasant to walk on a winding
road where each turn opens out a fresh vista, and the
coming of every hidden corner is in the way of an adventure.
I have just made such a path.</p>
<p class='c012'>To be precise my path is eighteen feet long and two
feet and a quarter wide. It curves twice, really in a
sort of courteous bow in avoiding a Standard Rose
tree, and begins and ends in a little low step of Box;
this to prevent the cinders of which it is made from
mingling with gravel of the paths into which it runs.</p>
<p class='c012'>I began it on a Monday. It is made through a Rose
bed that was too wide to work properly. At about
nine in the morning the gardener and I stood regarding
the unconscious Rose-bed with much the same gravity
as men might regard a range of hills through which a
tunnel was to be drilled.</p>
<p class='c012'>I said, “This seems the best place to make a path
through the bed.”</p>
<p class='c012'>The gardener made a serpentine movement with his
hand to indicate the possible curve of the path and
replied, after an interval: that such a place seemed as
good as any.</p>
<p class='c012'>We then, with a certain lightening of heart after
this tremendous thought, walked into the bed and
surveyed it. This tree would have to be moved, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>that one, and these half standards shifted. Good. It
should be done.</p>
<p class='c012'>It seems that the earth requires a little ceremonial
even when the merest scratch is to be made on her
surface. I am sure we wheeled a barrow containing
spades, a line, and sticks with some feeling of processional
pride. The gardener then, having come to a
stop with the barrow, spat, very solemnly on his hands.
It appeared to be the exact form of ritual required. In
a few minutes we had pegged a way.</p>
<p class='c012'>I suppose a spade is the first implement of peace ever
made by human kind. It is certainly the pleasantest
to hold. A rake is a more dandified affair, a hoe not so
well-formed. The scythe and the sickle have a store
of poetry and legend about them, but the rake and the
hoe contain no romantic virtues. Although the plough
is the recognised implement of peace in symbolical
language, it joins hands with war in that same language—“turning
their swords into ploughshares”—and
so loses much of its peaceful meaning, but the spade
remains always the sword of the man of peace, one
weapon by which he conquers the ground and makes
the earth yield her fruits. For me the spade.</p>
<p class='c012'>The gardener, having spat upon his hands regarded
the earth and sky as if to mark and measure the earth
and the heavens, and them to witness his first cut.
The spade, lifted for a moment, drove deep into the
earth. The soil, pressed by the steel, turned. A new
path was begun. How long is it to last?</p>
<p class='c012'>There are garden paths, so commenced, have made
history in their day, why not mine? Kings, Princes,
Lords, Queens, Maids of Honour, spies and honourable
men have trodden garden paths, measuring their small
length and discussing everything in the states of Love
or Country to come to some decision. The Poppies
<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>Tarquin slew gave their message. The Pinks that
Michonis brought to Marie Antoinette grew by some
garden path; that very bunch of Pinks in which lay a
note promising her safety, brought her death more
near. What comedies, what tragedies, vows made and
broken, kisses stolen and repented, have not had for
platform just such a path as mine.</p>
<p class='c012'>At the first hint of broken soil a robin, pert and ready,
took up a position on a bare limb of Penzance Briar,
and began to eye us merrily just as if he, I and the
garden were all out for a day’s worm hunting.</p>
<p class='c012'>Said I, “Dick, we are out to make a garden path,
incidentally to make history.” For I had my idea
of the “History of Paths” well at the back of my
mind.</p>
<p class='c012'>The robin replied (or as good as replied), “If it’s
history you’re after, it’s insects I’m here for, so we’ll
come at a bargain.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Meanwhile the gardener turned another clod.</p>
<p class='c012'>Said the robin, “I never saw any one so slow.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Slow as we might have been we were quick enough
in imagination. For one thing there was the question
of edging. Tiles, bricks, box, stones, which was it
to be?</p>
<p class='c012'>Half-way down the trench we had made, just at the
acute point of the greater curve, the gardener propounded
the question of the edging. He leaned on his
spade, and turning to me asked if I had thought to
something to edge the path with. Now my thoughts
were far away from that idea and were hovering
like butterflies over a vision of the Path Complete. I
saw, for Springtime, a row of Daffodils nodding and
yellow in the breeze. For Summer I saw Carnations
gleaming richly, and the Roses all blooming. Overhead
the driven sky hung out blue banners of distress
<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>as if signalling for fine weather. Plumb to earth my
thoughts came.</p>
<p class='c012'>“About something to edge with?”</p>
<p class='c012'>Almost before I had time to speak, he continued.
I had begun with the word, “Box.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Every one knows what it is to come on the rocks
in the soil of a gardener’s mind. It is, as a rule, some
old idea taken deep root which forms a rock of
resistance. Sometimes it is a rock idea about taking
Geranium cuttings, sometimes an idea about the time
for pruning fruit trees or the method of pruning them,
sometimes it concerns certain plants which he refuses to
allow will live in the garden and so lets them die. One
is never quite certain when or how the objection will
arise. I had sent out a feeler for Box and I struck a rock.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Box!!” he said in a voice of awe, as if the gods
overhearing would be angry. “Where am I to get
Box from? And if I was to get Box, Box don’t grow
so high,”—he held his hand a mustard seed height from
the ground—“not in ten years. It’s awkward stuff,
Box, to deal with. In a garden this size that needs an
extra man—and plenty of work for a boy too, when all
these leaves is about—growing hedges of Box or what
not is not possible. Not that I have anything to say
against Box, far from it. No. It looks well in some
places, but if you was to ask me, sir, I think it’ud be
the ruin of this Rosebed.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Said the robin to me, “The man’s mad.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I answered quickly, “It was merely a sudden idea
of mine.”</p>
<p class='c012'>He relapsed into silence for a moment. Then he said,
“flints.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I knew it was to be a battle. I hate flints. Nasty,
ugly, tiresome eyesores. Gardeners love flints just as
many of them love Laurels and Ivy.</p>
<div id='o224' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_224.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A PATH IN A ROSE GARDEN.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>I said very rashly, “But where are we to get flints?”</p>
<p class='c012'>Of course I should have known that he had a cartload
of flints up his sleeve. He scraped his boots, walked
away, and returned with a jagged thing like one petrified
decayed tooth of a mammoth. This he thrust into the
ground, and then surveyed it with pride.</p>
<p class='c012'>“That,” he said, “is something like.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Something like what?” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>“A double row of these,” he said, “with here and
there one of a different colour would never be equalled.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I agreed with him sarcastically. “Never,” said I,
“would they be equalled for utter hideousness. Far
be it from me,” I said, “to fill the hearts of my neighbours
with envy of this border.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“You don’t care for them?”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Chuck it at him,” said the robin.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I wouldn’t be seen dead in a path bordered with
flints,” I said.</p>
<p class='c012'>More in sorrow than in anger he removed the offending
flint, and we resumed work. The last time we had
used bricks for an edging they had all cracked with
the frost, so that idea was left alone. Not, of course,
that all bricks crack, but the bricks about here seem to
be very soft.</p>
<p class='c012'>I asked if we had any tiles.</p>
<p class='c012'>He knew of some tiles, a lot of them, nearly buried
in the earth and covered with Moss. They were an old
line running by the path inside the wall by the paddock;
the path by the rubbish heap.</p>
<p class='c012'>“But,” he said, having the rout of the flints in his
mind, “it would take a man all day to dig them up,
and scrape them and wash them, and then he couldn’t
say they would be any use when it was done. And
in a garden where an extra man——”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I will do it myself.”</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>“Fight it out,” said the robin.</p>
<p class='c012'>More or less in silence, and really in excellent tempers,
we finished the trench that was to receive the cinders
and ashes.</p>
<p class='c012'>I washed the tiles. There were exactly ninety of them
required. I started to wash them in the cold water
of a stable bucket, and I regarded each one as a thing
of beauty as I did it. After having done forty I began
to think it would be a good thing to give prisoners to do to
teach them discipline. After seventy, I decided to recommend
that particular form of torture to some Chinese
official. By the time I had finished I felt that some
medal should be struck to commemorate the event.</p>
<p class='c012'>The gardener, at the close of that day, looked at my
heap of tiles.</p>
<p class='c012'>I said, “I have finished them.”</p>
<p class='c012'>He replied, “I was just coming to lend a hand.”</p>
<p class='c012'>To which, as I was not going to let the sun go down
upon my wrath, I answered, “Thank you.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I think an ash-heap is the most desolate object I
know. The dreary remains of burnt-out fires make a
melancholy sight, but I remember that as a child that
corner of the garden where stood the heaps of ashes
and ancient rubbish was as the mines of Eldorado to
me. Here, if one dug deeply enough, one found pieces
of broken pottery, in themselves equal, by power of
imagination, to any discovery of Roman remains. To
the whitened bones I found I gave names, building
from them adventures more lurid than those of Captain
Kydd. To the ashes I gave gold and jewels, delving
as if in a mine, sifting, with childlike seriousness, the
heap of fire slack, and coming on some bright bit of
glass that shone for me like a kingly diamond, I held it
to the light and renewed the ardour of my soul in its
gleaming rays. After all, are not pieces of broken glass
<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>as beautiful as many jewels if they are self-discovered
and lit by the light of joy? That corner of the garden,
hidden by shrubs, by low-growing nut trees and shaded
by ancient Elms, has been for me the Forest of Arden,
of Sherwood, the deeps of the Jungle, an ambush, a
hiding-place, a tree covered island, each in its turn
absolutely satisfying to my mind. The sun’s rays
shooting down through the branches have found me
seated, dirty, dishevelled, but incomparably happy,—a
King with an ash heap for a throne.</p>
<p class='c012'>To an ash heap, then, I repaired on the following
day, there to gather loads of cinders and slack for my
garden path. Already in my mind the Roses bloomed
by the path side; the tiles, evenly set, were leaned
against by blue-eyed Violas; Carnations waved gorgeous
heads at my feet.</p>
<p class='c012'>My friend the robin was there betimes and took upon
himself to sing a little song to cheer me. After that,
with his bright eyes glinting, he hopped upon the bed
and inspected my labours.</p>
<p class='c012'>The gardener coming upon me glanced at the row
of neatly placed tiles.</p>
<p class='c012'>“I’m glad I thought o’ they,” he said.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Hit him,” the robin chirruped.</p>
<p class='c012'>“You think they look well?” said I.</p>
<p class='c012'>“As soon as I thought of they tiles,” he answered,
“I knew I’d a thought of a grand thing.”</p>
<p class='c012'>So he took all the idea to himself, and went on solemnly
pounding down the cinders with a heavy stone fastened
onto a stick.</p>
<p class='c012'>And now the path is finished, and curves smooth and
sleek between the Rose trees, and answers firmly to
the tread. All day long I have been planting cuttings
of Violas alongside the path; and behind them are
rows of Carnations.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>I wonder who will walk upon my path in a hundred
years time, and if by then they, whoever they be,
will think our methods of gardening very old-fashioned
and odd. And I wonder if we shall seem at all quaint
to people who will come after us, and if our clothes will
be regarded as odd and wonderfully ugly.</p>
<p class='c012'>Once, I remember, I saw into the past in such a vivid
way that I still feel as if I were living out of my date by
living now. It was on the occasion of some fête in the
country which was to be held in some big gardens.
Certain ladies were presiding over an entertainment that
set out to represent a series of Eighteenth Century
booths. The daughter of the house where I was stopping
had spent time, money, and taste in getting very accurate
and beautiful dresses of about 1745. They wore these,
powdered their hair, and placed patches on their cheeks,
and prepared baskets of lavender tied up in bundles to
sell at the fair.</p>
<p class='c012'>I saw them one morning start for the place where the
fair was to be held. They came into the garden all dressed
and in white caps, and they walked arm-in-arm down a
path bordered with Pinks and overhung with Roses, and
the sun gleamed on their flowered gowns and on their
powdered hair. I could almost hear them say—“La,
Mistress Barbara, but I protest it is a fine morning.”
There was nothing incongruous in sight, just these
walking flowers passing the banks of Roses, pink as their
cheeks, and the Pinks white as their powdered hair. I
felt at my side for my sword, and put up my hand to my
neck to smooth the fall of my lace ruffles, but, alas, nor
sword nor lace was there.</p>
<p class='c012'>In the ordering of paths such as I have written there
are many ways, and some are for paths all of grass, and
some for tiles, and some for flags of stone, some for
gravel, and some for brick laid herring-bone ways.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>Each has its proper and appointed place, as, for instance,
that flags of stone are proper by a balustrade where
are also stone jars to hold flowers and stone seats
arranged. And brick, which of all the others I most
prefer, as it is more warm to look at and helps the
garden by its rich colour, is good in intimate small gardens
as well as in big, and gives a feeling of cosiness to old-fashioned
borders, and is nice near to the house, and is
good to set tubs for trees on, or tubs filled with gay
flowers. Of grass paths, in that they are soft and inviting,
I like them well enough, but they are wet underfoot after
rain and dew, and need a deal of care and trimming; but
in such cases as small set gardens with queer-shaped beds
and low Box borders, I mean bulb gardens, to be afterwards
used for carpet bedding or for a show of some one
thing, as Begonias, or Zinnias, or Carnations, they are
without equal. They should be kept very precious, and
well free of weeds, otherwise their beauty is gone and
they have a lack-lustre air, very uncomfortable. As for
gravel, it is a good thing in place where the ground is low
and moist, for it will remain dry better than anything
if it is properly rolled and well made. Often it is not
properly curved and drained, and Moss and weeds collect
at the sides, whereby your garden will seem unkempt
and dull. Indeed the garden paths are of supreme importance
to the appearance of your garden, as if they be
left dirty, or covered with leaves or moss they will spoil
all the neat brightness of the flowers, and are apt to look
like an unbrushed coat on a man otherwise well dressed.
This is especially the case with broad paths and drives.
How often one has judged of a gardener by the appearance
of his drive! The first glance from the gate up the
drive will give you a fair guess at the gardener and his
methods, and you can tell at once if he be a man of decent
and tidy habits, or a man to leave odd corners dirty and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>full of weeds. That last man is just such an one as will
burnish up his place on the eve of a garden party, and
give everything a lick and a promise, and will stand by
his greenhouses with an expression on his face of an holy
cherub when the visitors are being shown his stove plants.
That man will be for ever complaining of overwork and
will wear a face as long as a fiddle if he is asked pertinent
questions of unweeded paths. “Such a work,” he will
say, “should be done by an extra boy. As for me, am I
not by day and by night protecting the peas from the
birds, and the dahlias from earwigs, and the melons from
the ravages of slugs?” And you may know from this
that he is the type of man who loses grape scissors, and
who leaves bast about, and mislays his trowel, and
neglects to give water to your favourite plants, so that
they wither and die. No. Look well that you get a
man who is fond of keeping himself clean, and he will
keep his paths clean, as is the case in a man I know who
started a fruit garden in the country. He, it was, who
showed me his men working on a Saturday afternoon at
cleaning up the paths. And when I stood amazed at this
he took me into the shed where the tools were kept, and
there I saw spades shining like silver, and forks burnished
wonderfully, and everything very orderly. I clapped
my hands, and looked round still in wonder, for I marvelled
to see such neatness and order in a place that is the
shrine of disorder—as tool sheds, potting sheds, and the
like, which are a medley of stick, earth, leafmould, old
pricking-out boxes, tools, wire, and other miscellaneous
objects. And I marvelled still more to see through the
open door men at work—on the afternoon devoted to
holiday—picking leaves from the paths, and setting the
place in order.</p>
<p class='c012'>I said, “This is well done indeed.”</p>
<p class='c012'>And he answered, that this was the secret of all good
<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>gardening, pride and carefulness, and that now he had
shown them the way his men were so proud of their tool-shed
that they brought admiring friends to see it of a
Sunday afternoon. Then I knew if there was money
to be made growing fruit in England (which there is)
then this man would make it (which he does).</p>
<p class='c012'>Now this talk of paths gives one the idea that people
do not here make enough of their paths, as the Japanese
do, for there they are skilled in small gardens, and
especially in landscape gardens on a tiny scale, making
little hills and woods, and views, lakes, streams, and rock
gardens in a space about the size of the average suburban
garden. Then they are very choice of trees, and value
the turning colour of Maples, and the droop of Wisteria,
and the shape and blossom of Plum and Cherry trees as
fine garden ornaments, while we grow our wonderful
lawns. Our lawns, indeed, are remarked by all the
world, and wherever you see the words “English Gardens”
abroad you will know that the people have made
a lawn and watered it, and are proud of its fat smooth
surface of velvet. But we make the mistake, I think, of
growing forest trees on the edge of our lawns and do not
enough encourage the wonderful and beautiful varieties
of flowering shrubs that there be. Above all we seem to
have a passion for dank, black, lustreless Ivy, beloved only
of cats, spiders and snails. I have seen many beautiful
walls of stone and brick utterly destroyed and defaced
by ill-growing Ivy, where the bare walls would give a fine
warm background to our flowers.</p>
<p class='c012'>The great thing in paths is to make them a little secret,
leading round trees to a fresh view, and interlacing them
in pretty and quaint ways, but we, a conservative people,
are ill-disposed to cut new paths except in new gardens,
and often leave badly designed paths for lack of a little
good courage. But we are learning by degrees, and I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>think the abominations of gardening are leaving us, such
as the monkey-puzzle tree in the centre of a round bed,
and the rows of half-moon beds cut by the side of our
lawns and filled with Geraniums and Lobelias, and the
rustic seat (horror!), and the rustic summer-house made
of rough pieces of tree limbs badly nailed together
(horror of horrors!). Now we know more of the way to
make pergolas, and terraces, and how to build summer-houses,
and the curse of the Mid-Victorian gardening is
come to an end with the antimacassar, and the wax
fruit under a glass case, and the sofa with horsehair
bolsters.</p>
<p class='c012'>Of course, true gardening is the work and interest of a
lifetime, like the collecting of objects of Art, and as such
inspires much the same eager passion and healthy rivalry.
Therefore let the setting of your collection be as perfect
as possible, and those paths leading to the choice collections
as fine as the velvet on which priceless enamels are
laid. Indeed enamel is a happy word, for what do
your flowers do but enamel the earth with their sweet
colours, and in pattern, choice, and variety, will surpass
all things made by man alone.</p>
<p class='c012'>And here I take my leave of paths, that great subject
that should indeed be a book to itself, for if a man sit
down to think of paths he begins to follow one himself,
and, starting from the cradle, ends at the grave, or,
pursuing some path of history, comes into the broad high-road
of all learning, or looking up and observing the stars
finds a train of thought in following the path of a star.
In a garden path, or from it, he may meditate all these
things with right and proper circumstance of mind, for
he has flowers at his feet full of the meat of good things,
rare remembrancers of history, and exquisite things on
which to base a philosophy; while, as for the stars, are
they not the Daisies of the Fields of Heaven?</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>
<h2 class='c006'>XIII<br /> <br />THE GARDENS OF THE DEAD</h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>It is a beautiful custom that we put flowers on the
graves of our dead, and is more fraught with meaning
than many know, for it is as a symbol resurrection that
they are so placed, inasmuch as the flower that seems
to perish perishes only for a while but comes up again as
beautiful, and though it die into the soil it reappears all
fresh and lovely with no sign of the soil to mar its beauty.
But it is more beautiful to plant the graves of those we
love with flowers, as then we symbolise that they are alive
in our hearts and for ever flowering in our thoughts.
And the shadow of the church over them is but the
shadow of the wing of sleep. All our lives, said a French
King, we are learning how to die; and when the time
comes we cannot help but think of that Garden of Sleep
where we must be placed along with other sleepers, there
to wait.</p>
<p class='c012'>In England it has long been a habit to plant the more
melancholy trees and shrubs in churchyards, as Yew trees,
Myrtle, Bay, and the evergreen Oak. In this way a
sense of gloom was intended, much at variance with the
Christian doctrine that proclaims a victory over death.
But instead of this effect of sombreness the presence of
these evergreens gives an extraordinary air of quiet peace,
of something perpetually alive though at rest. Often
and often I have taken my bread and cheese into a country
churchyard, and have sat down on the grass and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>leaned my back against some venerable monument, and
there lunched. I take it that this is no disrespect to the
dead, that the living should join company with them
even to the extent of spreading crumbs of bread over
their resting places. I take it that the smoke of a pipe
is no sacriligeous sight in the neighbourhood of tombs;
for it is but a friendly spirit prompts it, and no violation
of the repose of these dead people. No; no more than
does the distant roar of the ship’s guns at practice disturb
these quiet souls.</p>
<p class='c012'>In more than one churchyard there are the stocks
remaining where malefactors were placed, and so seated
were they that all the good folks passing in and out of
church were forced to pass, almost to touch the feet of
the wrongdoers as they trod the path to the porch. One
place I know in particular where the stocks remain, and a
goodly Yew tree having grown thick and strong behind
the seat forms a fine back to lean against. From here I
have surveyed the landscape over the tops of grey old
tombs, now all aslant over the heads of the sleepers.
Here the squire of 1640 rests facing the Cornfields once he
cut and sowed and stacked. There a lady, Christabel by
name, faces the flagged walk to the stone porch. There
is grass over them now, and the merriest Daisies grow,
and Moss covers the laughing cherubims, and Lichen has
crept into the words that set forth their marvellous
number of virtues. Spring comes here just as it comes
to other gardens, and the trees bud just as daintily, and
the young grass is every bit as green, and the first Crocus
lights his lamp, and the Dandelion flares as bravely with
his crown of gold.</p>
<div id='o235' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_235.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A CHURCHYARD IN THE COTSWOLDS.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>There are these quaint quiet churchyards over the
length and breadth of England, where the dead lie so
comfortably under the fresh English grass. Some
are full of flowers planted by loving hands; Roses
<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>grow beside the church and shower their petals over the
grey stones of the tombs, and Spring flowers have been
set in the grass to nod beside the headstones sleepily.
Others are bare and bleak, standing exposed to wind and
weather on a hillside, with stone walls about them, and a
church buffeted by every storm; yet these are sometimes
most peaceful gardens, and Ling and Gorse scent the air,
and twisted Fir trees, and gnarled old Pines, all leaning
over, wind-bent, stand guard over the sleepers; bees busy
in the heather, lizards green as emeralds, and the bright
butterflies give the feeling of incessant life; they give
that glorious feeling that the great pulse still beats;
that Nature all alive is yet at one with the dead.</p>
<p class='c012'>The gardener of these our dead, what a queer man is
he! What a peculiar profession he follows! To bury
is but to plant the dead that they may flower into that
new life. And he is usually a humorous character, a
man of well-chosen words who surveys his garden of
headstones and has a word for each. He is no respecter
of persons, since in the tomb all are equal, and to see him
at work preparing a fresh place for burial is to think that
the gravedigger’s work is no melancholy task. In the
heat of summer, half buried in the grave himself, he sings
some old catch as he shovels up the earth. “Poor little
lamb,” he may say of a dead child; “well, thee’ll bide
here against our Lord wants ’e.”</p>
<p class='c012'>I have seen such a man, his clothes brown with grave
earth, a Daisy between his lips (something to mumble,
as he does not smoke on duty), and watched his face as
the lytchet gate clicks. His daughter, a flower herself,
is bringing his dinner, which he eats cheerfully leaning
against one side of the grave for support. This, with a
thrush singing somewhere, and the wheeze of the church
clock, and the frivolous screams of swifts make death a
comfortable picture.</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>Here we have Nature triumphant, the Earth with her
children asleep in her lap. But a monstrosity has crept
into our graveyards—God’s Gardens—and in place of
flowers with their joy, their symbolical message of resurrection,
one sees ghastly things of bead work and of wax,
enclosed in hideous glass cases with a mourning card in
the centre of them. This is not seemly nor decent in a
place where the Earth reclaims her children, where nothing
ugly should be. It is within the reach of everyone
to buy fresh flowers and to renew those flowers from
time to time, and they should be left, if they are placed
there, to die. Away then with glass jam-jars filled with
water, with bead wreaths, and all ill-taste and hideous
distortion of grief, and let us have our offerings made as
if to the living, for our dead live in our hearts, nor torture
them with horrid and distressing objects on their graves.
I would have every churchyard a garden kept by the
pence of those who have laid their dead there to rest;
and I would have flowers and shrubs planted and paths
made, and seats placed, so that all should be kept fair and
bright.</p>
<p class='c012'>In Switzerland, where I was once, I saw the most
delightful graveyard I have ever seen. The church
stood on a bluff overlooking a river, a swift running noisy
river that sang songs of the mountains and of the big
fields and of the bustling towns, a dashing river alive
with music, loving the sound of its own voice. Above
was this church and its yard, and a little below, the village.
The church was low-built and old, with a wooden
tower on which a cock stood guard; and it was whitewashed,
and toned by sun and rain, and a clock in the
tower marked the passage of time, solemnly, “tick-tock;
tick-tock.” Along the south wall outside the church was
a bench, and a Wisteria over the bench, and a little jutting
roof over the Wisteria. This bench, time-worn as all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>else was time-worn (as the wall was polished by several
generations of backs), faced the graveyard. If you sat on
this bench you might take a glance at a man’s life there
in one long look, for there was a mill near by, and an Inn,
and a shoemaker’s, and a forge—the blacksmith was the
undertaker, too, any one could see from the fact that he
was making a coffin. Besides these you could see mountains
covered with snow and wreathed in clouds; great
stretches of country, a wood, and the river. What more
can there be, saving only a sight of the sea?</p>
<p class='c012'>But what struck me most forcibly was the appearance
of the graveyard, for each grave had flowers growing by
it, and a little weeping willow planted to hang over it,
and there was something so pleasant to me in this that I
was filled with delight of the place as I sat there. It was
a real garden, so fresh and bright with flowers and with
ugly bead-wreaths as are so usual in foreign countries,
and now, alas! in our own. And it was so homely to
think of the elders of that place who sat looking at the
graves and meditating—very likely—on the spot where
they themselves would lie. I remembered then, as I sat
there, the description of the graveyard in David Copperfield,
and the words came almost exact into my head.</p>
<p class='c012'>“One Sunday night my mother reads to Peggotty and
me in there, how Lazarus was raised from the dead.
And I am so frightened that they are afterwards obliged
to take me out of bed, and show me the quiet churchyard
out of the bedroom window, with the dead all lying in
their graves at rest, below the solemn moon.</p>
<p class='c012'>“There is nothing half so green that I know anywhere
as the grass of that churchyard; nothing half so shady
as its trees; nothing half so quiet as its tombstones. The
sheep are feeding there, when I kneel up, early in the
morning, in my little bed in a closet within my mother’s
room, to look out at it; and I see the red light shining on
<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>the sun-dial, and think within myself, ‘Is the sun-dial
glad, I wonder, that it can tell the time again?’”</p>
<p class='c012'>Even as I remembered those words I looked up and
noticed a sun-dial on the wall of the church just over my
head, and, curiously enough, just that peace that those
words give to me seemed to come to me from the sight of
the sun-dial, and the repose of the scene before me.</p>
<p class='c012'>It is good, I think, to meditate on these things, and all
who garden, who are, as it were, in touch with the soil,
must sometimes let their thoughts linger over the other
gardens where the dead are, and where Spring comes as
blithely as in any other spot.</p>
<p class='c012'>Although the gardens that are what are called “show-places,”
tended and nursed by a staff of men, do not
bring one into such close contact with earth as earth, still
in the greater garden is a peace no other place knows but
the graveyard. This is no morbid thought, nor over
introspective, but, I think, makes me feel more sanely
and not so fearfully of death. In the same way do the
poor keep their grave clothes ready and neat in a drawer,
with pennies sewn up in linen to put over their tired eyes,
and everything decent for the putting away of their
bodies. So does the wood of trees enclose them, and
good and polished wood in the shape of coffin-stools is
there to bear them up. And I have heard many talk of
how they wished to lie facing the porch of the church;
and others who wished they might be near by the gate so
that folks passing in and out might remember them.</p>
<div id='o238' class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/opp_238.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>AUTUMN COLOUR AT BONCHURCH OLD CHURCH, NEAR VENTNOR.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>This may seem a subject not quite fitted to a book
which is to tell of the Charm of Gardens, and yet I am
sure lovers of gardens will know just what I mean. To
think of and know of the peace and beauty of certain
graveyards is to gain consolation and quietude such as
the knowledge and thought of all beauty gives. What a
wonderful thing it is that we can paint the earth with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>flowers, set here crimson, and there orange, here purple,
and there blue; range our colours from white to cream, to
deep cream, to all the shades of all the colours, to deep
impenetrable purple, more black than black, like the
dusky eyes of anemonies.</p>
<p class='c012'>When it is night, and “the dead all lying in their
graves at rest, below the solemn moon,” the thousand
thousand Daisies of the fields have closed their eyes, and
the Buttercups’ golden glaze is mellowed by the moonlight,
still there are flowers gay in the sunshine somewhere
in the world. Though the garden is chequered in
the blue-green light and heavy shadows, and the owls
hoot in their melancholy voices, still there are birds somewhere
in the world singing. And though, across the way
behind the wall, white in the moonlight, lies the dark
churchyard, and all is very still there, still, I think, they,
whose names are carved there on the stones, are not in
the dark, and do not know the damp and mouldy earth,
but are somewhere in some world more light and beautiful
than this.</p>
<p class='c012'>The solemnity of this type of thought is seldom given
to me by flowers; it is more the breath of trees, and the
deep places of a wood, that gives one this feeling of hush
and peace. Flowers are gay, stately, exuberant,
simple, but always joyous, as witness the pert questioning
faces of Pansies, and the languorous droop of Roses,
the stately propriety of Lilies, the romantic splendour of
purple Clematis, and the passionate beauty of the
coloured Anemonies. In a garden are all moods, from
that given by a school of white Pinks, to the masterly
exactitude of the Red-Hot Poker, or the limpid and very
virginal appearance of Lavender. Youth itself comes in
full blood with the blossom on fruit trees; the slim
elegance of childhood with the Narcissus and the Daffodil.
Daintiness herself is in Columbine; maidenly virtue is in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>the hang-head Snowdrop. Zinnias have the melodious
colours of the East; Jasmine and Honeysuckle hold the
spirit of the porch. Sweet Peas, all laughing and chattering,
are like a bevy of young girls; while the proud Hyacinth,
erect up his stem, his hair tight curled, his breath
strong and sweet, is to me like some hero of the days of
William of Orange, a hero in a curled full-bottomed wig.
The Iris has the poetry of river banks; the Sunflower
peering over a cottage garden wall, spells rustic ease.
Fuschias I count very Victorian, like ladies in crinolines;
Geraniums also are prim and most polite. Wallflowers
I place as gipsy-like, a scent somehow of the wind on the
road; while the Snapdragons have a military spirit and
grow in brightly uniformed regiments. Carnations are
courtiers, elegant, superbly dressed, yet with a refinement
all their own; and Larkspurs, like charity schools
of children, all dressed alike and out for a walk, on the
tall stalk. Primulas, deep-coloured or pale, I feel somehow
to be the flowers of memory; and Sweet Sultans are
like Scots lords in foreign clothes. There are a hundred
others, all with some little fanciful meaning to those who
grow them, but all, I think, are full of joy; no flower is
sad. It is the trees, the voices whispering in whose
leaves bring deeper thoughts.</p>
<p class='c012'>There are those who say that happiness would come
could we but find the Blue Rose; and others that there
are places one must need find like El Dorado; and others
that a magic charm will bring us the joy we desire. They
are all wrong. Happiness lies in the Rose at your hand,
El Dorado is at your door, the magic charm!—listen,
there is a thrush singing.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>THE END</div>
<div class='c014'><span class='sc'>Printed by Ballantyne & Co. Limited, London</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c006'>OTHER BEAUTIFUL BOOKS<br />ON FLOWERS & GARDENS</h2>
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>EACH CONTAINING FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='figcenter id015'>
<img src='images/ad_1.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>THE FLOWERS AND</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>GARDENS OF JAPAN</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Painted by ELLA DU CANE</p>
<p class='c012'>Described by FLORENCE DU CANE</p>
<p class='c012'>Containing 50 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Square demy 8vo, cloth, gilt top.
Price 20s. net (<i>by post</i> 20s. 6d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—Japan has often been called the Land of Flowers, and to judge from the
beautiful illustrations in this volume, it is aptly named. The artist may be said to have
given us a diary of the year’s flowers from the opening of the first plum blossom to the
falling of the last maple leaf, and all are depicted in their natural surroundings. The
illustrations also include flowering trees amid old temples, charming landscape gardens,
flower feasts, and many natural scenes of great beauty. The author, who has spent two
floral seasons in the country, not only gives an attractive description of the flowers as
they appeal to the eye of the foreigner, but has also collected and reproduced in the
book many of the native legends which show that sentiment and tradition play a large
part in the feelings with which the Japanese regard their flowers.</p>
<p class='c012'>“This ‘gardening’ book is one of the most fascinating that has ever been published,
and is worthy of its most fascinating title.”—<i>Morning Post.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“A charming volume, one of the most satisfactory of its kind that has appeared for
some time.”—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“The book has the best account we have seen anywhere of the way in which
Japanese gardens, including the landscape garden, are planned, planted, and made
effective.”—<i>Outlook.</i></p>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>THE FLOWERS AND</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>GARDENS OF MADEIRA</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Painted by ELLA DU CANE</p>
<p class='c012'>Described by FLORENCE DU CANE</p>
<p class='c012'>Containing 24 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Square demy 8vo, cloth, gilt top.
Price 7s. 6d. net (<i>by post</i>, 7s. 11d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—From the title of this volume it will be seen that it is not intended as a
guide-book to the island. Its aim is to help those lovers of flowers who are fortunate
enough to spend a winter in Madeira to appreciate the very varied vegetation of that
flowery land. From the author’s description of the never-ending succession of floral
treasures, it would appear to be perpetual summer in that favoured island, while the
so-called winter is almost the best time of year to see the gorgeous creepers for which
Madeira has long been famous.</p>
<p class='c012'>The illustrations suggest warmth, sunshine, and flowers, and should tempt many a
wanderer to escape from the cold grey skies of an English winter, and spend his time
basking in the sun, and enjoying the succession of flowering trees, shrubs, and plants
which are gathered together from every part of the New and Old World.</p>
<p class='c012'>“A charming book.... The coloured illustrations are not only instructive, but
gems of their kind.... Should be in every library.”—<i>Garden.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“No one knows better than Miss Du Cane how to paint flowers.”—<i>Standard.</i></p>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>GARDENS OF ENGLAND</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Painted by BEATRICE PARSONS</p>
<p class='c012'>Described by E. T. COOK</p>
<p class='c012'>Containing 20 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Square demy 8vo, cloth, gilt top.
Price 7s. 6d. net (<i>by post</i>, 7s. 11d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—“Gardens of England” does not follow the conventional lines of recent
works, but is descriptive of the modern development of the love of picturesque horticulture.
All who have a love of the garden and the country in their hearts are aware of
and welcome the intense interest that has been slowly asserting itself in this fair land of
ours, and this, surely, is of physical advantage to the race. In this book the sketches
show the beauty of the modern rose garden when planned with taste, the flood of colour
that comes from rambling roses over the pergola, and the brilliancy of the herbaceous
border in summer. The text follows the same lines, and, as indicating the character of
the book, there are chapters on “Cottage Gardens,” “Rosemary and Lavender,” “The
Rose Garden,” and the four seasons in the garden.</p>
<p class='c012'>“A book of very great value.... Highly deserving of a place in the country-house.... It
is instinct with the spirit of the garden, and no one could turn its leaves, or look
at the pictures, without obtaining many a hint that could be put to practical purpose.”—<i>Country
Life.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“Miss Parson’s pictures are almost fragrant, so truly does she realise the atmosphere
of her subjects. The volume is one which the garden lover ... will find full of delight.”—<i>Truth.</i></p>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>ALPINE FLOWERS</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>AND GARDENS</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Painted and Described by G. FLEMWELL</p>
<p class='c012'>Containing 20 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Square demy 8vo, cloth, gilt top.
Price 7s. 6d. net (<i>by post</i>, 7s. 11d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—This is an attempt to present, in word and picture, a broad and general
view of the Swiss Alpine flora in its wild home and in the gardens established for it in
the Alps. It is an attempt to break away from the mass of specialist literature on the
subject, and to depict, not merely something of the floral wonders themselves, but something
also of the unique and fascinating atmosphere which surrounds them—something
which will appeal both to those who know the Alps and to those who know only of
them. To quote from the Preface contributed by Mr. Henry Correvon, one of the
greatest living authorities on Alpine plants: “The Alpine flora has never yet been
described or offered to the public at the angle at which it is here presented to us. Here,
then, is a profoundly original work which lovers of beauty and truth cannot but applaud.”</p>
<p class='c012'>“Mr. Flemwell’s paintings will at once attract those who open this book, for he has
accomplished with singular skill the difficult task of making the Alpine air breathe
round Alpine flowers. And lovers of Alpland who do not look for a specialist technical
work on the flowers will be pleased with his letterpress, which, though botanical lore is
not lacking, studies them from rather a new angle.”—<i>Times.</i></p>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>DUTCH BULBS</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>AND GARDENS</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Painted by MIMA NIXON</p>
<p class='c012'>Described by UNA SILBERRAD and SOPHIE LYALL</p>
<p class='c012'>Containing 24 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Square demy 8vo, cloth, gilt top.
Price 7s. 6d. net (<i>by post</i>, 7s. 11d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—Miss Una Silberrad has had exceptional facilities for studying life in the
Bulb Fields in and around Haarlem, which has been the centre of the industry ever
since its first introduction, and here sets down for us the quaint customs of the growers,
and their manner of life. Miss Sophie Lyall treats of the Hyacinth; her chief authority
being St. Simon, a learned Frenchman of the eighteenth century. Garden-lovers will
appreciate his enthusiasm, and the loving exactness with which he describes the life of
the plant, its treatment, and the environment best suited to its needs.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Over the pictures in this book it is difficult not to wax enthusiastic, for they are
veritable triumphs of colour-printing.”—<i>Globe.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“Her pictures as a whole are as successful as the subject and the letterpress in
helping to endow this volume with a unique charm which no flower- or garden-lover can
fail to appreciate.”—<i>World.</i></p>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>BY THE POET LAUREATE</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>THE GARDEN</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>THAT I LOVE</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Containing 16 full-page Illustrations in Colour by GEO. S. ELGOOD, R.I.</p>
<p class='c012'>Square demy 8vo, cloth, gilt top.</p>
<p class='c012'>Price 7s. 6d. net (<i>by post</i>, 7s. 11d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>From the Author’s Introduction to this Edition.</span> “What!” said Lamia,
“<i>Another</i> Illustrated Edition!”</p>
<p class='c012'>“I believe so,” I replied, trying to look as meek as I could, but betraying, I fear,
that special kind of hesitation which proceeds less from conscious guilt than from
embarrassment.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Have you consulted Veronica?” she asked. “If you have, I am sure she must have
informed you ‘The Garden that I Love’ will soon be as hard to put up with as the
Fiscal Question.”</p>
<p class='c012'>Despite the opinions of Lamia and Veronica the publishers believe that this edition
will be welcomed by many who have read the book with pleasure, but have never had
an opportunity of seeing the beauty of the Garden itself.</p>
<p class='c012'>“The illustrations are worthy of the book, which is one of the most charming
books about a garden in the language.”—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“This sumptuous edition will enhance the appreciation even of this much appreciated
book.”—<i>Aberdeen Free Press.</i></p>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>BRITISH FLORAL</span></div>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>DECORATION</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>By R. F. FELTON, F.R.H.S., F.N.C.S. &c.</p>
<p class='c012'>FLORIST TO KING EDWARD VII AND MANY COURTS OF EUROPE</p>
<p class='c012'>Containing 26 full-page Illustrations (12 in Colour). Square demy 8vo, cloth.
Price 7s. 6d. net (<i>by post</i>, 7s. 11d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—It has been felt for some time past that owing to the vast strides which are
yearly being made in Floral Decoration in Great Britain that there was need for a book
on so highly interesting a subject. The publishers have been fortunate in securing the
co-operation of Mr. R. F. Felton to write such a book and to select and supervise the
preparation of the illustrations.</p>
<p class='c012'>As Mr. Felton’s art brings him in touch with the Courts of Europe, he is able to give
examples of many important and interesting floral works with which he has been
professionally associated.</p>
<p class='c012'>An important feature of the book is a complete and carefully compiled list of the
best varieties of all flowers to grow for cutting and decorative purposes. The work has
been largely subscribed by many influential people in this country.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Flowers play such a large part now in the decorations of the home that the many
useful hints given here will prove widely acceptable.”—<i>Evening Standard.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“<span class='sc'>The Passion for Flowers.</span>—Every phase of the subject has received attention in
these pages and the book provides many valuable hints. Especially interesting are the
chapters on certain flowers such as Roses, Orchids, Tulips, Lilies and Violets, Sweet Peas,
Daffodils, &c.”—<i>Daily Mail.</i></p>
<div class='lg-container-l c019'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'><span class='xlarge'>KEW GARDENS</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c012'>Painted by T. MOWER MARTIN, R.C.A.</p>
<p class='c012'>Described by A. R. HOPE MONCRIEFF</p>
<p class='c012'>Containing 24 full-page Illustrations in Colour. Large crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top.
Price 6s. net (<i>by post</i>, 6s. 4d.)</p>
<p class='c012'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—Kew Gardens contain what seems the completest botanical collection
in the world, handicapped as this is by a climate at the antipodes of Eden and by
a soil that owes less to Nature than to patient art. Before being given up to
public pleasure and instruction, this demesne was a royal country seat, especially
favoured by George III in days when it would be almost as rural as now is Osborne
or Sandringham. This homely king had two houses here, and began to build a more
pretentious palace, a design cut short by his infirmities, but for which Kew might have
usurped the place of Windsor. For nearly a century it had a close connection with the
Royal Family, as the author illustrates in his story of the village and the gardens,
while the artist has found most effective subjects in the rich vegetation gathered into
this enclosure and in the relics of its former state.</p>
<p class='c012'>“Mr. Martin’s drawings add much to the value of this fascinating book.”—<i>T.P.’s
Weekly.</i></p>
<p class='c012'>“Mr. Martin’s pictures are charming.”—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p>
<div class='figcenter id015'>
<img src='images/ad_2.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c014'>
<div>PUBLISHED BY ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK</div>
<div>SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>Transcriber’s note:</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c020'>Headings and subheadings in the Kalendarium, pages 108-148, have been regularised.</p>
<p class='c020'>Variations in spelling in the Kalendarium have been retained.</p>
<p class='c020'>Illustration captions have been regularised.</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 21, full stop inserted after ‘light,’ “in a fluster of bright light.”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 38, double quote inserted after ‘madam,’ “this is why, madam,” I could”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 55, full stop inserted after ‘Head,’ “from some once lovely Head.”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 62, comma inserted after ‘led,’ “me, willing to be led,”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 62, comma inserted after ‘thread,’ “Though by a slender thread,”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 76, ‘Falerian’ changed to ‘Falernian,’ “sat drinking Falernian wine poured”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 82, ‘glimmmering’ changed to ‘glimmering,’ “glimmering amidst their greenery”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 102, ‘Orgilly’ changed to ‘or Gilly,’ “Clove Pink, or Gilly-flower, a variety”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 116, ‘Minabile’ changed to ‘Mirabile,’ “Flos Africanus, Mirabile Peruvian”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 126, ‘alter’ changed to ‘after,’ “Ranunculus’s after rain (if it come”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 129, ‘Paterre’ changed to ‘Parterre,’ “In the Parterre, and Flower”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 133, ‘Michaemas’ changed to ‘Michaelmas,’ “Malacoton, which lasts till Michaelmas”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 134, ‘Candi-tufts’ changed to ‘Candy-tufts,’ “Larks-heel, Candy-tufts, Iron-colour’d”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 139, ‘Cand-tufts’ changed to ‘Candy-tufts,’ “Delphinium, Nigella, Candy-tufts”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 144, comma inserted after ‘Cabbages,’ “Parsneps, Turneps, Cabbages, Cauly-flowers”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 151, colon struck after ‘GARDENS,’ “TOWN GARDENS”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 163, ‘that’ changed to ‘than,’ “more beautiful than the Almond tree”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 176, ‘wheelrights’ changed to ‘wheelwright’s,’ “into the wheelwright’s saw-pit”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 186, ‘Aglantine’ changed to ‘Eglantine,’ “was crowned with Eglantine”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 206, full stop inserted after ‘grass,’ “crickets in the grass. But in”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 212, ‘er’ changed to ‘’er,’ “but what ’er won’t rain”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 222, ‘vitual’ changed to ‘ritual,’ “the exact form of ritual required”</p>
<p class='c020'>Page 232, ‘antimaccassar’ changed to ‘antimacassar,’ “end with the antimacassar, and”</p>
<p class='c020'>Ad page 3, ‘Full-page’ changed to ‘full-page,’ “Containing 16 full-page Illustrations”</p>
<p class='c020'>Ad page 3, comma inserted after ‘Lamia,’ ““What!” said Lamia,”</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54641 ***</div>
</body>
<!-- created with ppgen.py 3.56n on 2017-04-15 03:42:30 GMT -->
</html>
|
